Orgasmatron

With Charlotte, it never felt like cheating because it never felt like love. It always felt like what it was supposed to be in the first place; an overpowering, unadulterated hunger for flesh with a genuine sadistic regard towards dignity that would spiral itself into an uncontrollable feeding frenzy of self-respect and warm body fluids; otherwise known as hot, throbbing lust.

She never played hard to get and she would never make him pay. She was the All-American whore next door. She was one thousand Penthouse Forum stories rolled into one rapturous page-turning novel. She was an unsuspecting, upper-class nymphomaniac who knew how to scratch an itch.

The sex was just that. Sex. It was wonderful because it was just what he had imagined, hoped and anticipated it would be and it was predictably average because it was what he had always imagined, hoped and anticipated it would be. It was uninhibited masturbation with the presence of a live body. The feeling was mutual and Charlotte was the ‘come inside and leave your condoms at the door’ kind-a-gal.  And there was never any spooning or sappy pillow talk or any gestures of gratitude. The gratitude being expressed, already, in various selflessly compromising acts; it was understood.

Rules were established in rapid accord. One rule was that the sappy pillow talk and spooning stay reserved for for their significant others, the ones they each loved so dearly. There was no lip kissing other than when applied as a basic fundamental first move. Another rule was to stay focused on the main objective at hand: a couple of jarring orgasms delivered as quickly and as easily as possible. Making a day out of it would be a form of lovemaking and that was not what either of them wanted from each other. They had their significant loved ones for such things.

© 2011 Mark Rogers

Front Cover for Driftwood (book 1)

Driftwood (Book I)

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Chubby_Chaser

“Yo dude, check it out.” Nigel turned the dome light on in the car, pulled a picture of out of his pocket, and handed it to Mahdakis. It was a photo of a big-titted sperm dumpster with nothing on but a pair of panties, her hands placed strategically over her bare breasts “This bitch is hot, huh?”

“Mm.” Mahdakis shook his head unimpressed. “Yeah, man a real piece of ass, dude.”

“Dude, she’s fuckin gorgeous! I fucked her last weekend. I took that picture!” Nigel was lying about taking the picture. “You can get chicks like this too!”

“Watch the road, will ya?”

“Got it.” Nigel grabbed the steering wheel with both hands again.

“I have a girlfriend.”

“C’mon, let’s get real for a moment. That thing? Back there? Nicki? That’s what you like?” Nigel shook his head in confusion. “You can do better you know.”

“Maybe.”

“So you’re a chubby-chaser, huh? What’s up with that, anyway?” Nigel made a left-hand turn without signaling and cut off an unsuspecting car that blared its horn.

“She isn’t fat!”

“She is. She’s humongous, dude.”

“Her tits are humongous; it’s an illusion….sort of.”

“No sort ofs about it, you’re doin’ a……..dude you got ketchup all over your mouth.”

“But I didn’t eat anything…oh shit!” Mahdakis grabbed hold of the rearview mirror and studied the red substance that was all over his chin and inside his mouth. “Ahh, sick man.” He opened the window and started spitting profusely.

“What’s the matter dude? Are you alright?”

“It’s blood man, it’s blood, not ketchup!”

“Where are you bleeding from? Are you gonna be alright?”

“It’s not my blood, man. It was on Nicki’s face.”

“Ah, sick!” Nigel also started spitting profusely out the window for some reason. “What happened to her?”

“Nothing.  She was just fine. I think she got it somewhere else.” Mahdakis continued his spitting and wiping off his face with the bottom of his T-shirt.

“It’s someone else’s blood?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“On her face?”

“I’m almost positive.”

“Positive? Positive for AIDS is what you’re going to be if you keep hanging around these people.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“Fuckin aye. See what I mean? You need to date nice hot chicks like this, in the picture. I guarantee she wouldn’t be seen out in public with aids-infected bloodstains all over her face.”

“Maybe not on her face.”

“Dude….whatever….the point is, you’re hangin’ with a demented crowd and stickin’ it to a fat chick who’s destined for AIDS. You wear a condom at least, I hope.”

“Nah man, I hate those things.”

“YOU’RE GONNA DIE!”

“Mm.”

Original Artwork: Fabian Corona

© 2016 Mark Rogers

Book Cover for Paradise in Purgatory

Paradise In Purgatory

(Vol. IV)

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Close Encounters of A Preposterous Kind

“Okay, okay…sit down.” As Pumpkinhead sat down at a corner table in the coffee shop, Captain H threw his sandwich on the plastic tray and continued, “How do I communicate with the little green men?”
“Little green men?”
“Yeah.”
“Hey dude, did Jezebel sell you some of that liquid acid? That’s to be taken in small doses, you know. I hope you didn’t slurp that down.”
“Don’t be coy.”
“Coy?” Pumpkinhead picked at his hash browns. “You sure you mean coy?”
“Yeah I mean coy; you know like a wise-ass.” He took another bite of his sandwich.
“A wise-ass is just a wise-ass. If you’re coy, then you’re a bashful, or a shy wise-ass.”
“But you’re still a wise-ass!”
“Only if you use that particular adjective in there, otherwise you’re just a demure person.”
“Stupid?”
“Huh?”
“Stupid….a stupid person. Like, ‘that guy skipping across the street is acting a bit demurely’.”
“Because he’s demure, he’s stupid?”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“Being demure has nothing to do with stupidity. Did we go to school in the same country?”

2016-07-15-21-25-02

Continue reading

Ride The Snake

Waking to the fuzzy feel of the rapidly fraying silk sheets, her naked curvaceous body intertwined with his and, and more importantly, to the comforting knowledge that he was safe. Safe in her arms; cocooned within a calming sense of belonging, purpose, want, and need; the beat of his heart, once again accompanied with a melody. He was with his true love.

But with all that, came the familiar air of uncertainty. The uncertainty of what she was thinking (and why), or scheming to do next (and when), and then, how long this euphoria would last. But it was his choice, and he knew the plausible consequences. He knew he’d forfeited all control the moment he stepped towards her; yet he stepped anyway. The serpent that was their twisted, masochistic passion for one another had reawakened itself and was cotton-mouthed; thirsty for new blood. And in its unyielding quest to quench the thirst, would lead them both down a long spiraling ride of emotional anguish and sexual nirvana, as only a serpent can be held accountable. Continue reading

The Transvestite, The Dealer, and The Chambermaid

“Jesus Christ Frank; what the hell happened to you?”

The large group of friends turned and stared at Frank Slates black and blue face with cut marks, as he started to explain, “Well I…”

“Did you get into a fight?”

“No, I…”

“You walked into a train?”

“Or an industrial sized fan?”

“Th…the power went off abruptly a-as you were going down an escalator?”

“Imaginative Jack, but no.”

“I have a guess!”

“Calm down, Rizzo!”

“I know what happened,” said the silhouette of a leather capped young man, standing confidently with one foot on The Rock, and lighting a Tijuana Small cigar, looking away, out onto the Brandywine River. “You paid a hooker for some rough sex. She tied you up to the bed, pulled your shirt up, your pants down, then circled the bed like a shark while pounding your body with a soap on a rope. The soap finally broke off and flew across the room; she sat on top of your ankles and went down for a while, bringing you to the brink of orgasm.”

“So far, you’re pretty close.”

“She stopped, stared at you, and laughed sadistically. You wanted to come but you were tied up and there was nothing you could do. She sat on your stomach and slapped you silly on either side of the face with rough open hands. It was then it hit you just how very strong she was for a woman. Then, as if confirming your anxious suspicion, she stood up and pulled her pants down, revealing the largest cock you’d ever seen, and dangled it tauntingly above your head.”

“Ahh, no……that didn’t happen.”

“Yes it did, and furthermore, you still wanted to come; you didn’t care how. So you focused only on her…his…..its…long beautiful blonde hair and smooth tan complexion, an angel from the neck up. You were mesmerized by its beauty to the point where you didn’t even mind the cock now jarrming in and out of your mouth. That’s right, you sucked the monstrosity in total bewildering admiration, but you were not sure why.”

“I’m not sure why you’re saying all this.”

“Maybe it was the irresistible cleavage, the smooth hairless legs and firm buttocks, or, perhaps it was just about it all being the largest cock you had ever seen, and you didn’t mind…didn’t mind at all…She….it…did the work for you as it stood on the bed with its hands on its sides thrusting its pelvis, shoving itself in and out of your mouth as the back of your head hit the wall violently, over and over and over again until the thing laughed hysterically and came on your face.”

“Hee-hee-hee-hee!”

“Yes, just like that ……………..you were confused…”

“You’re confused; you know that?”

“…humiliated. He ….she…..got up to leave, but you were angry, and, finally managing to break free of the Hoover vacuum belts that had you bound to the bed, you lunged at it with intent to kill…her…him…it….whatever….but you forgot that your pants were still on, down by your ankles at this point, and you tripped and fell, smashing your head through the glass coffee table.”

“Now that part really happened, sort of.”

“Eeeww. Frank, you’re disgusting.”

“You lay on the floor helpless, as the thing looked down on you in seductive victory.” Mahdakis took a drag off his Tijuana. “Then it got weird.”

“Then?”

(inhale-exhale) “Here we go.”

“The beautiful transvestite walked over to the bed-stand and, with all its brute strength, ripped the clock radio out of the wall and tore the cord out from the insides of the device. It then began to whip you with the electrical cord, laughing sardonically as it pulled out a copy of Gideon’s’ Bible and recited passages from Leviticus 18. It finally dawned on you that coming here was probably a bad idea……You defecated yourself and began crying for your mother, and then…..like a phantom, she exited the room, presumably leaving you for dead…or worse………. alone…to die in your own excrement, blood, and semen.”

“None of that ever happened! This isn’t true,” Frank pleaded for a moment of sanity.

“Then…..” the silhouetted figure continued.

“There’s even more?” –Bobble-bobble-bobble “Someone shut him the fuck up, will ya.”

“The chamber maid came in.”

“Now we’re talkin’. Ha-ha.”

“Goiter, shut up and stop rubbing your palms together,” a voice said. “That’s very disturbing.”

“Shut up! I wanna hear how it ends.”

“….But it wasn’t really a chamber maid. It was an FBI agent who had been working undercover as a chamber maid for the better part of six months, trying to bust up a heroin ring, headed by the owner of the hotel. Frank wasn’t part of the plan, just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I wasn’t at any place at any time. Where you getting’ all this from?”

“….And the FBI agent, well, he was just being a chamber maid.”

“He?”

“Yes…he was undercover as a she, and he saw you lying there, Frank; bleeding and helpless. But there was no time. The agent had just been made by one of the dealers. He needed to get out of the building…..and fast! So he swapped clothes with you, taking his wig off his head and putting it on yours, then he boogied out of the room, and ultimately, the building.”

“Is that it?”

“Then.…”

“Christ.”

“The dealer busted into the room and saw you lying on the floor in a wig and a chamber maid outfit and smashed the butt end of his rifle against your ear before realizing that he had the wrong cross-dresser……

“I’m not a cross-dresser.”

“….But, being one to always seize the moment, the drug dealer eagerly unbuttoned his pants. He pulled out his…….”

“Alright….we get it!”

“Fuckin’ aye, dude. Take a valium.”

“And THAT is what happened to Frank.” Mahdakis puffed on his cigar.

“That was my guess,” Rizzo said, “I was going to say the same thing.”

 

© 2012 Mark Rogers

Crimes Seen Front Cover

 Crimes Seen

(Book II)

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Return To Sender

burning-diploma

“Where you off to in such a hurry?”

“They just kicked me out of school,” said Mahdakis, stopping to acknowledge Floyd. “I guess I got to start looking for some sort of a job, or something.”

“Well that wasn’t very nice of them. What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Ya had to do something. They don’t just kick you out of school for doing nothing.”

Mahdakis took a puff of his cigar. “Apparently they do.”

“Hmm…who knew?”

“Hey dudes! What’s up?” Nicki said, coming out of the school, slapping them both on the ass. “Shouldn’t you guys be in class, or something?”

“Us? I thought you graduated a few months ago. What the hell are you doing here?”

“I just wanted to say hi to a couple of teachers. Ask how their summer was, you know?”

“Did you have sex with them?”

“What? No! What’s the matter with you?”

“Then why are you talking to teachers when you don’t have to?”

“Never mind.”

“Mahdakis just got kicked out of school.”

“For how long?”

“Forever long. Mr. Fuss said if I quit on my own, it will look better on my record, so I did.”

“Shit man, what did you do?”

“Nothin’ Hee-hee-hee-hee. He did nothing!”

“And it seems that’s not an acceptable practice.”

“Well, duh,” Nicki said, getting in his face. “You’re supposed to do something, anything…but you can’t just do nothing.”

“Ahh….and nothing is not something, is it?”

“No, it’s not.”

“But anything is something.”

“And something can be anything.”

“Most definitely.”

“But you can make something out of nothing, people do it all the time.”

“And you can make nothing out of something, although it’s not recommended.”

“So where did I go wrong?”

“It sounds like you were trying to make anything out of nothing, buddy, that’s the problem here.”

“Okay, but can’t you make nothing out of anything?”

“Sure. Politicians do it on a daily basis.”

“Now I see.”

“Alright, enough of you assholes. Anyone seen Tony?”

“He went to pick up his car this morning, and then go to work. They offered him new full-time hours. If it works out, he’s hoping his birth-givers will let him quit school.”

“Quit school?”

“Well at least he can say he was doing something.”

“He can’t quit school! And where the hell is he? That asshole! He told me to meet him here because he didn’t have a ride!”

“I don’t know, Nick, but he left a while ago, and what do you mean, quit school? Why not? Thousands of people do it every day.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“Or wrong.”

“But it does make it trendy.”

“I’m thinking about doing it!”

“When?”

“How about right now? Hee-hee-hee-hee,” Floyd laughed, slapped him on the back and started walking away from the school with him. “Want some company?”

“Sure. The more the merrier.”

“Yeah, let’s see how fuckin’ merry you guys are standing in the unemployment line. What the fuck? What are you idiots gonna do with yourselves?”

“I don’t know,” Mahdakis confessed. “I guess whatever teenage dropouts do.”

“Wanna get high?”

“Sure.”

“Listen to yourselves. What a bunch of fuckin’ B.U.R.N.O.U.T.S.”

“Okay Mrs. Smarty pants, what would you do?”

“I don’t know,” said Nicki, swinging a set of keys around. “But I have my birth-giver’s car all day, nowhere to go, and a bag of purple microdot.”

“Where’s the car?”

“The Jeep’s over there, right in front.”

“I thought you couldn’t park there.’

“Student’s can’t park there but I’m not a student anymore, remember?”

“See? You get all kinds of special privileges and access to the school once you don’t go here anymore, or have any real use for it.”

“But while you’re here, you’re treated like an animal. This makes sense to you guys?”

“It’s incentive.’

“Incentive would be getting a blowjob from your teacher after a good grade.”

“That’d be a lot of blowjobs.”

“Not if she taught you idiots. Besides, what if it was a guy teacher, you assholes? You want some old dude slobberin’ all over your cocks?”

“I don’t know, that wouldn’t be so bad, I guess.”

“She says it like it’s a bad thing.”

“You know I read somewhere that Japanese female-birth-givers do just that for their male offspring, when they bring home a good grade for the semester.”

“That’s just sick, you know that. What kind of a normal person would want their female-birth-giver giving them head?”

“Have you ever met Floyd’s female-birth-giver?”

“Shut up, dude.” Floyd looked over at Nicki and said, “Normal is all how you are raised. If you’re taught that this is normal, you don’t think of it as odd.”

“Meaning, the female-birth-givers go down on their offspring when they’re young? What are you, an asshole?”

“It’s true. In that same report, they explained how they masturbate their male offspring when they’re very young so as to stop them from crying, and continue this practice well into puberty.”

“Makes sense.”

“What??? Mahdakis, where do you come up with this shit?”

“I read a lot.”

“Maybe if you read more of your assignments instead of whacking off to National Geographic, or whatever, you wouldn’t be repeating your senior year again.”

“Aren’t you paying attention? I’m not.”

© 2011 Mark Rogers

Front Cover for Driftwood (book 1)

Driftwood (Book I)

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Another Piece Of Meat

Tony and Mahdakis sat on the front porch stoop of Tony’s female-birth-giver’s new home, enjoying a cigarette as she and her new companion, Radcliffe, scurried about inside preparing the next course for Thanksgiving dinner. Mahdakis didn’t know that’s what they were doing in there. He thought dinner was over and that perhaps they were washing up or preparing dessert. After all, the six of them had already indulged in appetizers such as ricotta stuffed mushrooms, fried zucchini, marinated mozzarella balls, and antipasto salad. Thereafter, Mahdakis and Nicki were already stuffed and barely managed to get through what they assumed was the main course, baked eggplant lasagna with an asparagus feta salad, immediately followed by a mandatory helping of freshly sliced roast beef and a side of roasted garlic and rosemary potatoes. But this was the Italian way. Mahdakis and Nicki were of the white mutt nationality and knew not of such unabashed gluttony. They also had not grasped the concept of sampling only a bite or two of this and that instead of devouring everything in front of them as rapidly as possible.

It was growing dark outside; the clocks had been turned back. Light from the television in the empty living room smacked enticingly up against the glass windows every once in a while, reminding those outside that there was a game on. Dallas was playing the Vikings. Nicki Tater and Tony’s brother, Pedro Ravioli, took a drive to get some more beer and some smokes. Pedro was clean-shaven with short black hair and was built like a Sneetch, but without the star on his round belly. “Quite a dinner ma’s rustling up in there, huh?” Tony Ravioli said. “You better have some more room in there.”

“Oh man, I don’t know about that. Hey dude, what the hell happened last Saturday night? Why was Polly crying?”

Tony shook his head in bewilderment. “Dude, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“I was right outside your bedroom door with Sally, about to come you know.”

“You were; what about me?”

“Dude, I was holding Sally up by her ankles and…..”

“Spare me the visual, will ya? I think I saw anyway. She was upside down, wasn’t she?”

“Yeah! You like that move?”

“Not for me, no. But hey, if sucking on an ugly chick’s mound of meat is your thing, well then God bless. I mean, someone’s gotta do it, right? And it sure the hell ain’t gonna be me.”

“I had to finish myself off, dude. Thanks a lot.”

“I’m sorry. I………What? Where?……Where the fuck did you finish yourself off?!”

“Well I don’t know exactly; it was dark. But I guess somewhere on the couch.”

“The couch? You blew your fuckin’ load on my couch?”

“Maybe it hit the carpet instead. Like I said, it was a little dark and I couldn’t see where it went.”

“So that’s your thing? You just blow loads all over people’s houses whenever you feel like it?”

“I had to! I heard that if you’re worked up that much and don’t let yourself come, you can get blue balls or something.”

“That’s an old wives’ tale. Besides, this whole fiasco is your entire fault anyway.”

“How is it my fault?”

“Hey, you pulled me aside, after you and Sally finally arrived, and told me that Polly takes it in the ass.”

“That’s what Sally said.”

“Well guess what, she wasn’t taking it that night!”

“You tried that move on the first date?”

“I didn’t try anything, I did it! She gave me great head, so I flipped her over and shoved it in, thinking she was really going to dig this.”

“Who digs that?”

“Polly! That’s what you said! You said Polly likes getting fucked in the ass!”

“She hates getting fucked in the ass; that’s what I said.”

“No you fuckin’ didn’t, Mahdakis! You pulled me aside and said, ‘Psst; hey, Polly takes it up the ass.’”

“Right, but I didn’t say she liked it! She can’t stand it, actually!”

“That is some information I could have used!”

“Hey!” The front door opened and a middle-aged man with glasses and a balding scalp stepped outside. “It’s getting a little loud out here don’t you think fellas?”

“Sorry Radcliffe.”

“Sorry.”

“Your mother said she will be serving in about twenty minutes, okay? So be inside. Where’s your brother and Nicki?”

“I don’t know; good question.”

“Well let’s find them or your mother will have a fit.”

Radcliffe went back inside to give the television its much-desired attention, as Tony put his cigarette butt out on the cement walkway and looked away from his friend. “Where the hell is Pedro and Nicki? We need to eat soon.”

“That’s okay, man. I’m gonna pass on dessert. No offense but I’m not a sweets guy myself. Nicki said she was stuffed, too.”

“Dessert? What the fuck’s the matter with you? My birth-giver slaved all day, you can’t leave now!”

“Fine. What is for dessert anyway?”

“Homemade tiramisu and fresh cannolis I think, but that isn’t the point! Skip dessert if you want, but we’re serving the main course now!”

“Main course? What the fuck are you talking about? We just had pasta and beef!”

“I’m talking about the turkey with fennel sausage stuffing!”

“The what?”

“And the fish! We haven’t had the turkey yet. You can’t leave, motherfucker!”

“Fish?”

“With homemade bruschetta!”

“Jesus Christ. How am I supposed to eat all that?”

“Just eat a little! She worked hard all day and last night!”

“Fuck man.”

Nicki and Pedro pulled up in the car as the door to the house opened once again and Radcliffe stepped out. “Oh okay, everyone’s here; just in time. Good, now we can eat.”

“Awesome!” Pedro yelled, springing like a rocket out of the passenger’s seat. “That’s what I call timing.” As Pedro got to the porch he smiled at Mahdakis and said, “You coming in, or are you just gonna stay there looking stupid.”

Mahdakis looked at Nicki, who was still in the driver’s seat, and mouthed the words, ‘There’s more food’.

She stared helplessly back at him, wiping her nose then mouthing the words ‘Are you kidding?’

He shook his head ‘no’ and took a step towards her car.

“I have to get back home,” she finally said announced out the window. “This is my Mom’s car and she needs it back. Mahdakis, if you want a ride, come now!”

Mahdakis felt six very disapproving eyes staring at him on the porch and could not look at any of them. He took another step towards the car and simply said, “Sorry, I have to split, too.” Then picking up his pace towards the car yelled back. “Thanks for everything. Tell your birth-giver that what I did eat was the best I’ve ever had. Awesome!” He jumped in the car as Nicki quickly put it in gear, “See you tomorrow!”

Nicki made a U-turn at the end of the dead end road and sped out as if they had just robbed a bank. “Where to Mahdakis, my love?”

“Anywhere…Southpoint. I don’t care; just get me away from all this food. These people are nuts!”

“No shit man, how can people eat like that?”

“And there were only six of us. What the hell?”

“Crazy,” Nicki said sniffling and wiping her nose again.

“So what the hell took you and Pedro so long?”

“Oh, damnedest thing; I had to gobble on his cock awhile in exchange for a bag of coke and he couldn’t come. Ha-ha-ha…Ha-ha-ha-ha!”

Mahdakis looked at her face. She was smiling, probably trying to instigate him. He wasn’t going to bite. Even Nicki had more scruples than to mess around on her boyfriend right under his nose with the brother of her former boyfriend, right under his nose. “Funny,” is all he said.

“Ha-ha-ha….Ha-ha-ha-ha! Okay, Southpoint it is. Let’s see if Curly and Pumpkinhead are around since we’re driving right by.”

“Cool.”

The truth of the matter was, Nicki hadn’t been joking about the Pedro Ravioli thing, and as a matter of fact, had begun dating him behind Mahdakis’s back, so she would tell him two decades later……“Ha-ha-ha…Ha-ha-ha-ha!”

© 2016 Mark Rogers

Book Cover for Paradise in Purgatory

Paradise In Purgatory

(Vol. IV)

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Chubby Chaser

“Yo dude, check it out.” Nigel turned the dome light on in the car, pulled a picture of out of his pocket, and handed it to Mahdakis. It was a photo of a big-titted sperm dumpster with nothing on but a pair of panties, her hands placed strategically over her bare breasts “This bitch is hot, huh?”

“Mm.” Mahdakis shook his head unimpressed. “Yeah, man a real piece of ass, dude.”

“Dude, she’s fuckin gorgeous! I fucked her last weekend. I took that picture!” Nigel was lying about taking the picture. “You can get chicks like this too!”

“Watch the road, will ya?”

“Got it.” Nigel grabbed the steering wheel with both hands again.

“I have a girlfriend.”

“C’mon, let’s get real for a moment. That thing? Back there? Nicki? That’s what you like?” Nigel shook his head in confusion. “You can do better you know.”

“Maybe.”

“So you’re a chubby-chaser, huh? What’s up with that, anyway?” Nigel made a left-hand turn without signaling and cut off an unsuspecting car that blared its horn.

“She isn’t fat!”

“She is. She’s humongous, dude.”

“Her tits are humongous; it’s an illusion….sort of.”

“No sort ofs about it, you’re doin’ a……..dude you got ketchup all over your mouth.”

“But I didn’t eat anything…oh shit!” Mahdakis grabbed hold of the rearview mirror and studied the red substance that was all over his chin and inside his mouth. “Ahh, sick man.” He opened the window and started spitting profusely.

“What’s the matter dude? Are you alright?”

“It’s blood man, it’s blood, not ketchup!”

“Where are you bleeding from? Are you gonna be alright?”

“It’s not my blood, man. It was on Nicki’s face.”

“Ah, sick!” Nigel also started spitting profusely out the window for some reason. “What happened to her?”

“Nothing.  She was just fine. I think she got it somewhere else.” Mahdakis continued his spitting and wiping off his face with the bottom of his T-shirt.

“It’s someone else’s blood?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“On her face?”

“I’m almost positive.”

“Positive? Positive for AIDS is what you’re going to be if you keep hanging around these people.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“Fuckin aye. See what I mean? You need to date nice hot chicks like this, in the picture. I guarantee she wouldn’t be seen out in public with aids-infected bloodstains all over her face.”

“Maybe not on her face.”

“Dude….whatever….the point is, you’re hangin’ with a demented crowd and stickin’ it to a fat chick who’s destined for AIDS. You wear a condom at least, I hope.”

“Nah man, I hate those things.”

“YOU’RE GONNA DIE!”

“Mm.”

Original Artwork: Fabian Corona

© 2016 Mark Rogers

Book Cover for Paradise in Purgatory

Paradise In Purgatory

(Vol. IV)

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F.A.G.G. Metal – Invasion Of The Penis Snatchers

It was an enormous mansion lined with wall to wall cocaine users and big-haired, scantily clad sperm dumpsters; it was a party of no less than four-hundred people; the occasion was the long awaited release of the Open Fly debut album, ‘Rock Out with your Cock Out’, and anyone who could show up, did. Most everyone wanted a piece of the Open Fly action, and wanted to be around them because they were indeed, cool. Or so the trend-following record label wanted everyone to believe.

For better or worse, the music scene had really taken shape. If any guy was going to make it in the music business at this point in time, he needed to possess, not only the pelvis and cheek bones of a nineteen-year-old girl, but the shaved legs as well; all stuffed inside tight genitalia-strangling spandex. Another major requirement for being considered relevant in the present music world was exposing a freshly waxed chest, with a full head of hair teased no less than ten inches above the skull, and if you wanted to make it really big, you wore hints of blush, eyeliner, and sometimes lipstick or colored lip-gloss and made puckering kissy faces at the big-titted sperm dumpsters in the audience while you played your guitar solo or bass fill. It didn’t hurt your image to grow your nails long and have them painted up in some effeminate manner either. And, of course, Open Fly lived to be flaming F.A.G.G.’s and were therefore the talk of the town, all the rave, the big cheese, the flavor of the day, in a fashionably gender confused world of what was regrettably now the biggest fad in music – Female-Aspirant Guy Groups; commonly known as F.A.G.G. Metal.

Basically, the scene had shifted from angry restless rebellious youth of the streets fighting for or against a cause; sending a message of hate, love, and a desire for a better planet (accompanied usually with some very interesting and talent-packed songs), what was now, nothing more than a bunch of wealthy, testosterone ridden, beautifully groomed, long-haired, would-be-jock-otherwise, mama’s boys out for nothing more than to penetrate the prettiest and stupidest bitch they could find; And the bait? Nothing more than a nursery rhymed melody sung over a 1-4-5 progression played on a shiny electric guitar, and a line or two of white powder. It was the roaring gay eighties.

Open Fly had just landed a minor contract with an up-and-coming record label. Their music was carefree, la-dee-da, drink-some-beer-and-fuck-some-chicks-in-fast-cars kind of music. It disgusted Mahdakis to no end that these types of bands were what was now being signed and granted small tours with even bigger, more well-known, la-dee-da, drink-some-beer-and-fuck-some-chicks-in-fast-cars kinds of bands. It spoke volumes for what was supposed to be his generation.

But this was no longer his generation. He banished it – along with some of the respect he had for its followers, which were many of the good friends he still had. He was not about to shave his mustache or sell out at any cost, but nor was he taking any immediate opposing action to do anything against it either. Instead, he seemed content in doing nothing with his music for the meantime.

 

Meanwhile… on the other side of town, in the rear parking lot of Barely Bagels, more stupidity was rearing its ugly head, as Frank, Carl, Dakota and Goiter prepared to attend the aforementioned F.A.G.G. Metal party…….

 

“Anybody wanna get going?” Carl said, impatiently.

“Why, you in a hurry for some F.A.G.G. action tonight? Ha-ha.”

Carl punched Goiter on the shoulder. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Ow!”

“Well he’s got a point, I mean…..they could dress a little more masculine, don’t you think? What’s up with those hair-dos, anyway? Why do chicks dig that? Dakota? Do tell.”

“Not all chicks dig it Floyd; me for one. I think they’re a bunch of poseur idiots. But if you must know, most of the other girls like it because it’s upbeat rock-n-roll that keeps things light and fluffy and doesn’t bring you down, or remind you of everything that’s wrong with your life…and the world.”

“Huh-huh, you mean like Mahdakis’s shit.” Frank Slate shook his head. “Good cripes. I love the guy, don’t get me wrong, but Jesus Christ, stick a fork in me when the song’s over, will ya?”

“I can never tell when his songs are over.”

“Yeah,” Frank continued, “sometimes I think the whole concert is just one long-winded song. And I’ll be damned if I ever know what the fuck he’s talkin’ about.”

“It’s called theater, dummy.” Dakota took a drag from her cigarette and blew it in his face. “But I guess a simpleton like you wouldn’t understand.”

Frank grinned, knowing she was only teasing. “Huh-huh-huh, you’re a nasty lil’ cunt, ain’t cha?”

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Whoa,” Carl screamed at him, “Easy!”

“I’m just kiddin’. Heck, I roadie for the guy, you know.”

“So you’d think you’d know more about what’s going on with him than you do,” Floyd said.

“Yeah, but I don’t.”

“And therein lies the genius that is Frank Slate. Ha-ha-ha!” Goiter laughed all by himself.

“So basically, F.A.G.G. metal is music that doesn’t burden your brain with any strenuous thinking,” Carl summed up.

“And that’s why so many people like it, and the radio plays it all the time,” Dakota agreed. “It’s ear candy for simple people with limited artistic capacity…

“Of which, there are many.”

“…people who hate having to think, and can only handle simple melodies running through their head.” She took another drag and exhaled as Frank earnestly absorbed what she said. “I mean you might as well play nursery rhymes on the radio.”

“The radio, I-I can’t even listen to it anymore, it’s so full of that F.A.G.G. Metal shit. Fuckin’ disgusting,” Carl hawked a big yellow loogy on the ground.

“You know what Mahdakis says?” Frank asked, trying to remember the conversation.

“This ought to be good.”

“He says that the government’s in cahoots with all these big companies that buy up radio stations and play uh…..what does he call it…..Mind Numbing….yeah, mind numbing music that’s meant to keep the American population…us….ignorant and distracted from what’s really going on. He says, that uh…..that these…these same companies also buy up music rights from older deadbeat artists…”

“Deadbeat?”

“…and uh….what do they do….they uh….yeah, since they now have the royal rights…”

“….Royal rights?”

“They were knighted,” Dakota whispered sarcastically.

“… they make the stations that they bought up, play these same songs over and over again, which makes them rich because the more people hear something, Mahdakis says, the more they want to hear it again because they know it’s safe and………they like uh….status quo, or whatever word he used; and that it will be the same for F.A.G.G. Metal years down the road, you know, because it’s a simple friendly kind of harmless music that brain-dead folks and their nice little children, although I think he said mindless children, will probably like years later. He says it’s all some sort of a…..a net to catch the most American fish at one time, or something like that, I think.”

A long hush of abysmal silence followed as everyone stared at each other, wondering if Frank was done. Floyd shook his head and broke the silence. “I’m not sure what’s worse, Mahdakis and his conspiracy theories, or Frank explaining them.”

Goiter laughed, “Makes it sound twice as insane as it already is.”

“And trust me,” Carl lit up a smoke and said, “neither one of them needs any help sounding insane.”

“Ha-ha!”

Frank turned and walked towards the car. “Fuck it. I like the radio…and F.A.G.G. Metal.”

“Me too, Frank,” Goiter said. “I’m right behind ya pal.”

“Hey-hey-hey, none of that. Just ’cause we’re goin’ to a F.A.G.G. Metal party together doesn’t give you the right to fuck me in the ass.”

“Then what exactly does?” Dakota asked.

Carl rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Can we just please get the fuck out of here already?”

“Yeah, alright,” Frank conceded, “let’s go meet up with our F.A.G.G. Metal friends and suck some F.A.G.G. dick all night long…..Mmm.”

Floyd stared at Frank. “Jesus Christ, Frank. Sometimes I wonder if you even know what the hell you’re saying.”

“Everyone hop in.” Frank got in his car and started it up. “C’mon, let’s go!”

 

 © 2013  Mark Rogers

Benevolence & Betrayal (Book III)

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Blue Morning, Blue Day

pabst

“God is an evil, demented, son of a bitch!”

“Oh my.”

“And I’ll tell you why Robin, you wanna know why?”

“Of course I do; who wouldn’t?……..But I’m afraid to ask.”

“I’ll ask.”

“Okay Fred, go ahead. Ask.”

“Fine. Howard, why, as you so gracefully put it, is God an evil, demented son of a Bitch?”

“Because he gave me the smallest penis on the planet!”

“Aaahhh, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

“Oh, come on, you have to be exaggerating.”

“Robin….when I’m naked, it looks as though I have two belly buttons.”

“I think God compensated for it though with that nose. Hee-hee-hee-hee!”

“Yeah, go ahead and laugh jokeman, laugh away; Laugh while your wife is having sex with black men on the front lawn, in broad daylight.”

“Hey, I didn’t write that joke! Fred handed that to me. Hee-hee-hee-hee! I wish I did, though. Hee-hee-hee-hee!”

“I knew I didn’t want to ask.”

 The clock radio, sitting on the soiled shag-carpeted floor, blares out the syndicated morning radio show on WYSP. A listless right arm falls on top of it slamming the button down. The hand attached to the arm fumbles about and finds a half empty can of Pabst Blue Ribbon leaning against the radiator. Mahdakis takes a pungent gulp and opens his eyes, acknowledging the dawn of another hapless, miserable day on this wretched, grey planet.

It is past eight o’clock on a Wednesday morning. The birth-givers and his younger brother, Pumpkinhead, have long gone to work…as most responsible adults have.

Our hero stumbles downstairs groggily, and turns the TV on as he begins to fix breakfast, a vegetable omelet with an abundance of cheese; enough so to scorch the frying pan beyond color recognition. The cartoon, Inspector Gadget is on; he watches with mild curiosity as he seats himself at the lonely cedar kitchen table wondering if anyone ever thought of making a porno version of Gadget, “Go, go gadget penis!” But his happiness is quickly subsided, as he is once again smacked in the heart with reality, and reminded that for the first time in four years, he is with the absence of true love in his life. For whatever reason, he liked being in love and having a girlfriend. Was it insecurity, or just an overwhelming need to possess another person’s affections? It was good that Jezebel was out of his life. But now he had no one else to blame for his problems…and he hated that.

Lying on the table, to the right of where he is eating, is a yellow note pad with writing on it. It is a song that he had started the day before yesterday. There are only four lines written on it:

 

‘Lovers may go but new ones will show

As the faces change and the years go by.

But I’m too weak to smile

And I’m too strong to cry…’

 

He gives pause as he considers adding another line. In the background he hears the desperate plea of a foiled bank robber being captured by Inspector Gadget, who had used his Gadget legs to extend up into the air another twenty feet, thus allowing him to walk over traffic. Mahdakis thinks for a moment how that would really come in handy…as long as everyone else didn’t have the same capability. Because then, you’d have the same problem with traffic congestion, but just twenty feet higher above the ground.

The twenty-year-old peels a pen up off the floor. The pen is covered in some unidentifiable goo (most likely something Pumpkinhead spilled on it last night while making dinner for himself at one in the morning while stoned off his ass). Mahdakis adds six more lines to the would-be song:

 

‘As destiny pulls me away

Towards a much more cloudy day

And there’s nothing more to say…

 ..But to face the truth and realize

That it’s time to break these emotional ties

That keep me locked up behind cold eyes.’

 

There.

His work was done for the day. Still chewing his food, he gets up from the table, walks to the kitchen and dumps the plate into the sink. ‘Someone will clean this up, they always do. Every day I put dirty plates in here and the next day they’re gone.’ He turns off the TV and heads upstairs to rub one out and take a shower.

It is almost ten o’clock by the time he is dressed.

There.

Two hours killed without too much thinking. But how to destroy the rest of the day? His birth-givers told him he’d best find a job soon…..‘or else’. He didn’t know what ‘or else’ meant, but it didn’t sound promising. He had come to appreciate the comforts of a real home (warmth, electricity, his own room, a toilet), and was in no hurry to return to the lifestyle of living under bridges, in friends’ cars, and in laundry mats as he had done with Carl and Floyd only a year ago. He walked to his upstairs bedroom window and stared outside, deep in thought, trying to remember the events of the night before……

Photo: “I have got a crush on you,” by Tor Alden
Art: “The Burnouts” by Liz Aikler

© 2016 Mark Rogers

Book Cover for Paradise in Purgatory

Paradise In Purgatory

(Vol. IV)

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Roots

tree

My tree stands alone

In the midst of a

Vast grassy field.

 

Allow me to introduce to you,

A place where time and reason

Both must yield.

 

I come here often

In my mind

When my heart is weak of feeling

Towards mankind.

 

It is my one and only

True salvation.

But, we are taught,

A shameful destination.

 

Vertigo!

 

Ecstasy at a stand still.

The stories this tree could tell.

 

The dream is the same

Time and time again…

I emerge on to the scene

Hypnotically focused upon my tree.

 

The tree………………

 

The root of all my evil.

It awaits me;

And as I draw near,

In my state of slumber

I can hear

My girls’ voice

Beckoning with fear.

 

“I won’t be coming home dear.”

 

I’d ask you to join me for a picnic ’neath my tree—

Cool in the shade.

But I know you are timid and frail

And one must not be afraid.

 

Color, creed and status

Lay defenseless

Here or anywhere

Around the aura

Of this wilderness cathedral.

 

For the tree is my stage

And each blade of grass, a spectator

Filled with curious envy

 

The sun is my spotlight

Beaming down hard

upon my every move.

 

My subconscious directs

And northeastern winds supply a subtle groove.


Ahh, placid animosity.

 

Peace and tranquility

Stem from this tree.

I must have some,

I must take a leave…

 

So I climb the tree

And give it my all.

And the rope around my neck

Breaks my fall.

 

And now I see

And now I crawl

Upon dirt floors

….in an ancient hall.

 

© 2001, 2012, 2016 Mark Rogers

Placid Animosity

Placid Animosity

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New Release!

My latest installment of the series; If you remember (or forgot) the 80’s, then you’ll appreciate some of this.

Or, if you are curious WHAT REALLY went on in that time, this is not a bad place to start.

And best of all, it’s FREE on Kindle Unlimited for a few more weeks.

© 2016 Mark Rogers

Book Cover for Paradise in PurgatoryParadise In Purgatory

(Vol. IV)

Click here for more inane drivel and lascivious behavior – brought to you exclusively by The B.U.R.N.O.U.T.S. Chronicles™

Pumpkinhead’s Theory of Anti-Prosperity

Pumpkinhead spun around at the foot of the bed to face his older brother, Mahdakis, “So here’s how it works; every Friday at the end of the month, you go up to NYU.”
“The one in New York?”
“The same.”
“But what if the last day of the month doesn’t fall on a Friday?”
“It doesn’t matter. Just go on the last Friday of every month!”
“How long are you going to be locked in this asylum?”
“Not much longer so you’ll probably only be doing this one time. But you gotta unload the shit for me.”
“Cool.”
“You’ll go to the Rubin dorm or Rubin Hall; something like that. It’s on Fifth Ave. Ask for Black Tom. He knows to look out for you. He’s really cool and mellow.”
“And black?”
“And black. Now, he’s gonna sell you the shit. You’re going to buy a pound of bud. Make sure it’s good bud and not shake. Black Tom won’t jerk you around and he usually gets nice stuff, but just make sure.”
“What if it’s not?”
“Not bud? Then don’t buy.”
“Alright. So far so good.”
“You’ll need about twelve hundred dollars.”
“Say what? Where the fuck am I going to get that kind of money?”
“Jesus Christ! Calm the fuck down, man. Don’t you have a job or something?”
“Yeah, I got a job, but my money’s pretty much tied up.”
“Well un-fuckin’ tie it because you have to understand that while twelve-hundred may sound like a lot, you’ll be selling ounces at two-hundred dollars!”
“So wait…..a pound, right?
“Right.”
“And there’s …uh….sixteen ounces in a pound?”
“Last time I checked.”
“So that’s thirty-two hundred dollars?”
“Yeah man, like a two-thousand dollar profit if you don’t use any yourself. You have the capacity to make even more by selling it in small nickel and dime quantities.”
“You must be rolling in the dough by now.”
“Not really man, I got the car payments and the insurance…”
“That’s it though. You got nothing else. Where’s all your money?”
“It’s rough man because we spend twelve or fifteen hundred on a pound sometimes and then end up selling just about the same amount. We break even more times than not.”
“That doesn’t even make sense. You should be making an extra two thousand or so off each deal.”
“Right. But then we need to set aside twelve more for the next buy.”
“So you should have two thousand in your hand.”
“Black Tom and I smoke a lot of it.”
“You smoke all your profits?”
“Basically.”
Mahdakis stood staring at his brother in disbelief, “What’s the matter with you, man? You were always so good with money.”
“I am good with money. I’m just not good with pot.”
“Jesus.”
“Hey man, stop raggin’ on me dude. It pays for itself and the gas to get to and from places, man.”
“So you and Black Tom smoke a half pound in a month? You smoke half your investment?”
“Easily.”
“What if you bought twice as much? Two pounds instead of one?”
“What good would that do?”
“Then you’d be able to have another pound and a half while still having the other half pound for recreation.”
“How do you figure?”
“Because it’s two pounds instead of one.”
“But we smoke up half of it.”
“Right.”
“Half of two pounds is one pound. We’d be smoking an entire pound instead of just half.”
“But you wouldn’t have to!”
“Sure we would!”
“Why?”
“Because we smoke half. That’s how it goes!”
“But don’t smoke half!”
“But that’s what we do! You said so yourself. If we didn’t smoke half then we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. All buying two pounds is gonna do is create more for us to smoke and generate more of a profit loss!”

 © 2013  Mark Rogers

Benevolence & Betrayal (Book III)

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To Suck or Not To Suck

Sham Rock walked up to Pumpkinhead and studied him only an inch away from his face, feeling Pumpkinhead’s face with his hands like a blind man reading brail, as if Pumpkinhead were an inanimate object or a painting being observed by an artist. “What’s the matter with you, Pumpkinhead? You look spaced out.”

“Fuckin’ high on angel dust, bro. I’m buggin’.”

“You gotta be careful messin’ around with that stuff. It’ll kill ya you know.”

“Yeah man, I can dig it,” was all Pumpkinhead could say.

“Where’s Nicki? Why didn’t she give you guys a ride?”

“She threw us out of the car after Mahdakis over here called here a fat little cocksucker.”

“What’s wrong with being a cocksucker?”

“Huh?”

“Nicki, I’m talking about. Why would she be upset with being called a cocksucker?” Sham Rock asked.

“Yeah, what’s her problem anyway?” said Rizzo. “I love it when people call me a cocksucker. Especially when it’s a complete stranger driving by and I’m standing on the side of the road with a large group of friends……Or better yet, family members.”

“Family members call you cocksucker?”

“That’s not right.”

“Oh it’s fine. They do it all the time! In fact, that’s how they address my birthday cards. ‘So, you’re one year older….Happy Birthday Cocksucker’.

Ignoring Rizzo’s sarcasm, Dakota suggested, “Maybe it was because you called her a fat cocksucker.”

“Girls don’t like being called fat,” said Kim.

“Yeah…that’s a real sticking point.”

“Cocksucker’s one thing,” Kim lectured on, “but to call a woman fat…well that’s just asking for a beating.”

Ignoring them all, Sham Rock continued, “But being called a cocksucker only means that she’s useful and well liked.”

“It’s derogatory, man.”

“Derogatory shmogatory. Isn’t sucking someone’s dick a nice thing?”

“Sure is,” Tony Ravioli said, bobbling his head. Bobble-bobble-bobble- “Why, you feel like being nice right about now?”

“You’re a wise-ass too, Tony. You and Rizzo are made for each other.”

“And it’s good for the environment,” Pumpkinhead said.

“And fun for the whole family!”

“That’s disgusting. What’s the matter with you anyway, Rizzo? And Sham, why the fuck are you asking this?”

“Contemplating a career change?”

“Shut the fuck up, Bobby. You too, Riz.” Sham Rock turned and studied Mahdakis. “And I don’t know what the hell you’re thinkin’ about over there, but I don’t like that grin on your face. Somethin’ tells me I should bust your head wide open right now.”

“But then you’ll never know.”

“Never know what?”

“What I was thinking.”

“Ah-ha! So you were thinking!”

Mahdakis took a puff off his Tijuana Small cigar. “It happens.”

“Sometimes.” –Bobble-bobble-bobble. Tony observed Mahdakis’ eyes squinting as he took the thin cigar out of his mouth. They had been together for too many years for Tony not to recognize that he was about to go into one of his lame, self-serving comedy routines. Tony also knew it a signal for him to step into sidekick mode.

Mahdakis said, “Most likely, a long time ago, it was someone whose last name was cocksucker.”

“Someone who lived in a small village…” -Bobble-bobble-bobble

“Marseille, France, perhaps.”

“…or just outside of…”

“…where she was considered a…”

“…or he…”

“…or he was considered a cheat or a liar.”

“Or someone who did the job only half way.”

“Which then of course begs to ask the question, which came first, the cock or the cocksucker?”

“The cock came first. The cock always comes first.”

Dakota broke their routine and said solemnly, “I always thought it was because they tease you by giving you oral until you’re hard and then leave, never finishing you off, or letting you fuck them. And that’s why people hate cocksuckers.”

“Oh.”

“Well sure, then there’s that.”

“Makes sense to me.”

“Mm.”

“Hey, what would life be like if we greeted each other like dogs?”

“We probably wouldn’t French kiss that much.”

“Do dogs give oral?”

“Not to other dogs.”

“So who do they give it to?”

“People.”

“People?”

“Yeah, I seen that in a movie or two once,” said Frank.

“Jesus, what a fuckin’ perv you are, man,” Polly laughed.

“How could you have seen it once if you saw it in two different movies?”

“Maybe it was the same scene.”

“Doesn’t matter. He still would’ve seen it twice.”

“What the fuck kind of movies are you renting, Frank?”

“Regular kinds.”

“Regular, my ass.”

Shake-shake-shake, (Inhale-exhale) “I got shit loads of those kinds of movies, Frank….a lot of cool imports from Germany and whatnot.” (Inhale-exhale) “Grandmas and black dudes, dominate fat chicks with submissive oriental business men, hot teens in locker rooms, gay bikers on acid, famous athletes who worship feet while masturbating, big-titted blondes with horses, midgets who eat shit,” (inhale) “you name it. I’m watching one at home right now called Anal in the Antarctic. It’s about an Eskimo love triangle.” (exhale) “If you ever wanna borrow something, just let me know.”

© 2016 Mark Rogers

Book Cover for Paradise in Purgatory

Paradise In Purgatory

(Vol. IV)

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Taking It For Face Value

Black Tom inhaled the joint and lazily looked over at Pock, the owner of a weathered crater face. “So why do they call you Pock? Is that a Texas kind of thing?”

Mahdakis and Tony were silent, eyeballing one another trying to make the best of an uncomfortable moment.

Pock spoke softly, “Nah man, it’s ’cuz a my face and whatnot.” Pock’s hand waved over his face suggestively as his eyes lowered to the ground. “You know?”

“That’s just from bad acne at one point in time. You can cure that you know.”

“Yea, how? Cut his head off?” Tony laughed.

“That wouldn’t be much fun, now would it?” Black Tom got up and walked into the bathroom. When he returned, he was holding a jar in his right hand and was mixing its contents with a wooden spoon, held in his left. “What you need, is to dab just a little of this on your face every morning and at night just before bed. It’ll do miracles.” Black Tom knelt down in front of Pock and was about to poke his face with the pointy end of a feather.

“Hey man, what duh fuck is dat, mane? Ya’ll gone fuckin’ bonkers er sumpin’? Don’t touch me wit dat crap.”

“It’s okay,” Black Tom retreated politely, “it’s just a facial concoction that rejuvenates the skin by going deep into the pours and replenishing any facial blemishes back to their original state. You’ll be a better looking guy in no time, just trust me on this one. There’s nothing in here that you don’t ingest into your body anyway, or nothing that isn’t all natural.”

“Wut duh fuck iz it, ’zactly?”

“It’s two parts strained mud water, one-part chicken blood, with a drop of vanilla extract and a sprinkle of crushed lavender pedals; about a teaspoon or more.”

“Say what?”

“Just grab a handful or two of mud and put it in a colander, spaghetti strainer or whatever, and let the water strain out into a bowl or something; maybe do this overnight because it’s gonna take a long time.”

“Okay. Where do I find sum ’dat chicken blood?”

“Just a fresh chicken from the grocery store will do. You know, before you cook it, reserve the blood in a container of some sort, but don’t let it sit around for more than a week in the fridge, or it’s no good.”

“Fresh chicken; got it.”

“And the pedals you can purchase at any florist of course. But this is the important part.” Black Tom moved in towards Pock’s face, holding the feather like a pen. “You must apply just a little bit with the tip of an authentic ostrich feather, as the ostrich is rich in particular enzymes that disperse from the feather stem when mixed with the other proper ingredients.”

“Enzymes, yeah…I heard ah doze.”

“Then apply the ointment like this.” Black Tom began touching Pock’s face lightly with the tip of the feather, and drew what felt to Pock like, imaginary lines; one under his right eye and then one on his left cheek. “This will go into your skin’s pours directly and sit festering, adding essential vitamins and minerals to the under layers. That’s it. Don’t apply any more than that. The next time you do this however, apply the ointment in two different spots.”

“Which ones?”

“Wherever you like. Just mix it up and don’t go over the same area too often. Then when you’ve done that…” Black Tom turned the feather around and began brushing Pock’s entire face with the feather end, “…give yourself a quick brushing like so. When you give it a brush like this, you are brushing any excess of those vitamins and minerals that may have not gone into your skin and spread them over your face where they won’t do much, but what little they do, will heal, and not go to waste by dripping on the floor.”

“Vitamins and Min’rals…those are good tings.”

“Yes they are, and so are ostrich feathers. That is why it is very, very, very, important that you use an authentic ostrich feather, like so, and not a fake one or any other type of feather. Do you understand?”

“Yeah…authentic.”

“Right, and since they’re hard to find, I’ll give you this one. There’s a little place down in the village here where I can get more.”

“Can you eat ’em too?”

“The feathers?”

“Ostrich. Do you eat ’em?”

“Personally I don’t eat any meat at all unless it’s between a woman’s legs, and even then I’m known to be a bit stingy. But I’ve heard that it is quite a delicacy in other countries.”

“Pussy?”

“No, Ostrich.”

© 2011, 2014 Mark Rogers

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In Case You Were Too Stoned To Remember…..

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Remember Tomorrow

“The only good thing about today is it’s still young and there’s still hope we will die before it’s over with.”
“That’s the spirit. What do you have against waking up tomorrow, anyway?”
“Tomorrow’s the reason I wanna get it over with today! Tomorrow we have to do this bullshit all over again!”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because I am.”
“Oh.”
“Because tomorrow is the day we pay for our wasted yesterday.”
“Which is actually today.”
“Exactly!”
“But it hasn’t been wasted.”
“Not yet. But it will. And all we can pray for is that today–”
“Or yesterday tomorrow.”
“–stops right here before tomorrow settles in.”
“The day after tomorrow, yesterday.”
“Right.” Continue reading

Ride The Snake

Waking to the fuzzy feel of the rapidly fraying silk sheets, her naked curvaceous body intertwined with his and, and more importantly, to the comforting knowledge that he was safe. Safe in her arms; cocooned within a calming sense of belonging, purpose, want, and need; the beat of his heart, once again accompanied with a melody. He was with his true love.

But with all that, came the familiar air of uncertainty. The uncertainty of what she was thinking (and why), or scheming to do next (and when), and then, how long this euphoria would last. But it was his choice, and he knew the plausible consequences. He knew he’d forfeited all control the moment he stepped towards her; yet he stepped anyway. The serpent that was their twisted, masochistic passion for one another had reawakened itself and was cotton-mouthed; thirsty for new blood. And in its unyielding quest to quench the thirst, would lead them both down a long spiraling ride of emotional anguish and sexual nirvana, as only a serpent can be held accountable. Continue reading

Paradise In Purgatory

Remember when we had no deadlines, no responsibilities, no self-respect, no goals, and no motivation to execute any of them even if we did,?

Ah……back then things were simpler and more confused….

 

© 2016 Mark Rogers

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Paradise In Purgatory

(Vol. IV)

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Go Fuck Yourself

“Go fuck yourself.”

 

It’s more than a request.

It’s a demand

And at best,

A command

That would suggest

Temporary discord

with one who stands

Before the matter at hand.

 

But, can this be done?

And why would someone

In the midst of a

Mad verbal spasm,

Wish upon you

A healthy orgasm?

 

If the answer’s gray

Then why bother to say

And or express

Such ignorance

Of grammar, body and flesh?

 

What about something different?

Why not something intelligent?

How about something like:

 

 “May an aids-infected,

acne faced,

family-disgraced

basket case

of a foreign race,

penetrate you

in a tight place.”

 

 Ha-ha.           What?         “No good”      you say?

Go fuck yourself!

 

© 2001, 2012, 2016 Mark Rogers

Placid Animosity

Placid Animosity

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God Is Everywhere

“It’s God’s way. You have to accept it and embrace it if you believe in God. God wants us to endure a good ass fucking from time to time. It’s just the way he is. I think he likes to watch, too.”

“You got problems,” Rizzo huffed, stomping away.

“It sounds like you got problems; not the least of which being, your subconscious struggles with faith.” He puffed on a Tijuana Small cigar. “You know, I just love how when something goes well, you fuckin’ people thank God for everything. Thank yourselves. You’re the ones who pulled through. It makes me laugh when people pray aloud; thanking God for all they have and exclaiming how God has shined his light down upon them for their self-righteous efforts. Well, by saying that, you’re inadvertently saying that God hates all the other unlucky motherfuckers in this world. The ones who live in backwards countries and are starving to death, or the ones who lose their homes to a fire. It must be because God hates those particular families and races of people. What about natural disasters? Were the victims of those disasters all heathens? That’s what people who thank God for all the joy in their lives are saying. Otherwise, why wouldn’t God give joy and happiness to everyone? He has the capacity to do so, right? I mean, he is the Almighty. Right?”

“That’s a good question.”

“You want the answer?”

“Probably not.”

“It’s because, number one, there is no God and this is all one blind crap shoot or, number two, there is a God but he’s dumb as a wall, which means that our creation was probably nothing more than a freak accident he had while making a pot of coffee. Or, number three, there is a God and he works in partnership with Satan to preserve the balance of good and evil. I mean, what would God mean without Satan?”

“I really don’t wanna believe that God is evil, if there is one.”

“You know in a community fish tank, when one fish gets really sick, it is best to take it out of the water and let it die slowly, rather than spread the disease. That fish didn’t do anything wrong. He was just minding his own business when he got sick but it is for the good of the whole community that he expires. It’s just a responsibility that the owner of the tank, or in this case, God, must take care of whether we like it or not.” Mahdakis held her hand, lovingly, and stared back at the night stars.

© 2011 Mark Rogers

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Driftwood (Book I)

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Hello, Yellow Brick Road

While they were only twenty, they felt like, and came off like, thirty-five year olds. They felt they had already lived a full life, and while some felt that the time had come to get serious, most were too afraid to let go and leave sight of the youth that hard living had stolen from them. They were determined to take it back, or hold on to, the insanity that was now their life so that the phantom feelings of it would never fade.

And without noticing, he had let a very significant door in his life slam shut behind him while unconsciously stumbling through another; the door behind him sealing off the negative background noise that for so many years had plagued his heart terribly. The door behind him also shutting out expired friendships and fruitless romantic endeavors. More remarkably, escaping such a life unscathed, a life that had been riddled with hostility, crime, deceit, betrayal, and over all ill fate. This was the wrong place for him to be. Either he had fooled himself into thinking he was something he was not, or he had simply outgrown whatever he was. Perhaps his senses were warning him to change course, or maybe he was just finally beginning to listen to them……..

 

© 2016 Mark Rogers

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Paradise In Purgatory

(Vol. IV)

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Skid Marks

Mahdakis stepped into the laundry mat, that Floyd and Carl had recently made their temporary sleeping quarters since being kicked out of their homes. “A little conspicuously bright for sleep, wouldn’t you say, Carl?”

“Yeah? Go back outside then.”

“It’s freezing out there.”

“Right, but in here?”

“It’s like a sauna, quite frankly.”

“We got half the dryers going, that’s why,” Carl said proudly. “Brain power.”

“I see.”

Floyd spoke from the rear of the mat where he stood folding clothes on a table, “I won thirty dollars in change playing poker with Squid,”

“Ah. And why not sleep here, instead of getting one of those rooms at the Motor Inn for nineteen ninety-nine, and having a few bucks to spare, right?”

“We didn’t want anyone to think we were gay,” Floyd said, placing a lace negligee on a hanger.”

“You’re still hell bent on keeping it a secret, are you?” Mahdakis looked at Floyd, who swiftly moved on to folding some silk panties,

Carl, finally noticing what Floyd was doing in the back of the laundry mat said, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“What does it look like, Johnny-Boy? Folding clothes.”

“Where did you find them? And cut the shit with that Johnny-Boy crap.”

“Whose are they?” Mahdakis asked.

“I don’t know. They were just sitting in here.” Floyd motioned to the dryer.

“So you’re folding them?”

“Well…..yeah……they’re gonna wrinkle otherwise.” Then, mumbling to himself, Floyd uttered, “Ooh, that spot’s not coming out.”

So dude, where you been?” Carl said to Mahdakis.

“Hee-hee-hee-hee!” Floyd laughed from the rear of the mat. “Jesus Christ, will ya look at these?”

“Ahh! Man!” was Carl’s reaction to the pair of skid marked encrusted cotton underwear that Floyd held in the air like a trophy.

“I didn’t think women did this sort of thing. Hee-hee-hee-hee. These things are ruined. Why even bother. Fuck it.” Floyd threw them into the trash basin.

“Fuck this; let’s go grab a bite to eat.”

“Cool,” Floyd said, and placed the basket gently back down on the bench, as he then began scribbling something on a napkin. “Just give me a minute here. I’m gonna leave this person a note.”

“To let ’em know you make house calls?”

“Nah, nothin’ like that……Okay, let’s go,” Floyd said, laying the note on top of her basket and rushing out the door just behind Carl and Mahdakis. He paused for a moment and looked over his shoulder. “You got to wonder what kind of person just throws a load of clothes in a dryer in the middle of the night and leaves them there.”

Kelly Pierce was that kind of person. And she filed a report with the police, which, in turn, spawned an investigation by the Norford Police Department, spearheaded by Police Commissioner Stromboli.

Floyd's Note Revised

Commissioner Stromboli re-read the last part of the letter aloud, “Floyd……..Floyd…..What do you suppose that means, Darryl?”

“Arr. You don’t tink it’s just his name?”

“Hell no! No one is that stupid. This is code for something, an acronym of some sort. Something gang related or………maybe having to do with the mafia!” The Commissioner rubbed his chin. “What was that guy’s name in The Godfather?….Hmm, never the mind, we have to figure out what this FLOYD thing stands for. It’s our only clue.”

“Found Loitering On Your Doorstep?”

“Don’t be daft! What kind of nonsense is that? Besides, isn’t Doorstep two words?”

“I do believe it’s one, sir.”

“Fetch a dictionary.”

“Sir!” a voice yelled coming up the precinct stairwell. “Commissioner!”

Commissioner Stromboli and Officer Darryl turned to see Officer Roy scurrying, up the stairs with Rookie Rick. “Officer Roy, what’s the trouble?”

Roy looked at the rookie cop. “Tell him what you heard.”

“Well, this morning I overheard John, the night watchman, talking to one of the construction workers on the job site. Apparently, every Thursday night before work, John stops around the corner at Cassel’s Wash & Dry on Third, and throws his laundry in the machine. Then, on his break, throws it into the dryer. He goes back to his post, works the rest of his shift, and picks it up in the morning on his way home. But this time when he returned to the mat…”

“Don’t tell me………..his clothes were folded!”

“Not only that, sir. But someone left him a note.”

“Jiminy Cricket, sir!”

“What kind of note?”

Roy pulled the note from his breast pocket, and unfolded it. “It just says, ‘You owe me, Johnny-Boy.’.”

“Johnny-boy?”

“Meaning the Night Watchman, John.”

The Commissioner looked puzzled and frightened for a moment as he stared at his reflection in the sparkling clean, precinct floor and gave thought. “Did he sign the note, Roy?”

“Nope. Not this time. And so far as we can tell, there’s no relation to either of the victims.”

The commissioner whipped off his glasses. “Dear God in heaven! Twice in three days; what kind of diabolical, twisted malcontent are we dealing with, here?”

“I don’t know commissioner, but anyone sick enough to go through other people’s clothes, well…”

“They’re capable of anything……Roy? Darryl? I want you two to add an extra cruiser at night and start canvassing areas near any laundry mats. Start within the vicinity of these last two.”

“Yes sir.”

“We’ll find this demented, clothes-folding son of a bitch sicko if it’s the last thing we do.”

 

© 2012 Mark Rogers

Crimes Seen Front Cover

 Crimes Seen

(Book II)

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