Rumored to Exist excerpt part 5

I’ve recently released my book Rumored to Exist as an eBook on the Kindle and other e-readers, for only $2.99.  I’ll be running some excerpts here to let you take a look.  For more info, see this post or go to


I was watching this lesbian chick stump-fuck her amputee girlfriend on the subway when I remembered I stole a stack of essay papers from a teacher’s desk to use as a jizz-rag later on. Out of boredom from the dyke’s up-and-down licking action, I started reading an essay to kill the time:

MY SUMMER VACATION By L. Rod Substein 7th Hour English Class

Cool wind gently bristled the hair on his skin, and broke the thin layer of semen that covered his bare, razor-scarred arms. A deep breath cooled his lungs, and after the pause he lifted the Tommy Chong two-barreled plexiglass bong to his lips, for another hit of hydroponically grown ganja. The screwdriver he drank this morning churned deep in his bowels, in the way that makes you hold back any stifled emissions from beyond the anal entry, for fear of ejecting gallons of hot shit down your leg.

I hit my sternum with a baseball bat and yelled “FUCKFACE!” the moist inner sponge and crunchy outside filling my stomach like mud. Along with the wheel of psilocybin the meal usually consists of a chunk of some sort of salted human flesh, two rotted baked potatoes from an Arby’s on the Indiana toll road, a handful of long-grained rice, a small block of twenty dollar bills and a medium-sized whale head. The meals seldom vary much in Catholic prison, but because there’s only one a day, and I don’t lie out on towels, darkening my already bronzed skin, they taste good. Better than Father Cohen’s anus, anyway. Perfect goddesses completely surround the small pond and line the footpaths crossing the green grass, the kind of temptation that makes you question the rampant homosexuality enforced by the elders. A few hippie dorks just back from the Taliban caught a glance of them, the THC in their system injecting enough estrogen to make them act “nice.” And I guess there probably could be people watching through some viewing window or X-10 mini camera in the ceiling, watching me like I’m an animal in a zoo, or a drunk in some alcohol study. I jerked off to Jennicam, and this is my penance. Her big, fat ass and tiny tits at $9.95 a minute, and I could’ve been going to medical school, studying some kind of orthoscopic joint reconstruction surgery that would buy me all the fat asses I’d ever need. Maybe this is some sort of Nazi interrogation center for deprogramming kids who played too much Nintendo. I did love Gauntlet on the N-64, and ECW Wrestling wasn’t too bad. Rogue Squadron kicked ass, though. One time I dated a psych major who used to work at a state ward, or maybe it was an Orange Julius. No, state psych ward. She had a preoccupation about mentioning people who were perfectly normal for years and then saw their brother die or took some bad acid or something and then just went full tilt schizophrenic. Maybe she secretly wanted me to go apeshit, so she had something in her desperate life to call her own.

Bubba Ray Dildo the shitpacker kicked the small truck on its side, the steel door biting the ground a hundred yards away, then throwing the thing on its roof with inertia. The heat seared the cab of the semi, then caught the tanks and billowed a second explosion. The diesel punched the trailer up and back, bending it into the ground at an unnatural angle.

Movement stirred the jeep and he had to stop it. Sprinting to the disabled flagman, he slammed the bolt of his rifle to fire. The metal chinged and ricocheted, bullets spraying the armor. His cock singed with desire from the new Gap ad where the chicks take the jeans on and off, on and off, zooming in on their skin-tight bikini underwear. The unstrapped empty rifle dropped behind him as a hand grabbed a flashlight, looking for survivors. A sudden snap jolted his eyes and a searing pain in that book about the Vietnam POW that he did this to try to keep his mental activity up, tried to figure out how to do calculus and economics and tried to write papers and poems and design an internal combustion engine that got 100 miles per gallon on cheese whiz. I’m getting to the point where I’ve remembered how to program in Fortran in my head, I can see lines of a program that does accounting for a death camp, calculates inmate torture and how many people a guard can rape and how much gas for the ovens. I’m going to sell it to Bob Dole when I get out. Then I’m gonna fuck him, and break that god damned gimp arm in half with my cock.

I think I try to devise these little games to take away the fact that I keep hearing things. The voices of every guest star on The Twilight Zone (the old ones, and not the full-hour color ones, which SUCKED) are there, they seem to show up when I’m just drifting to sleep, in the ethereal state between this world and the next. The sounds of people walking around me start to come for Paxil and Lithium, along with his wallet and a small stack of cassettes. Finally a hand snared the wire-rimmed spectacles and wrapped them around his piss-drenched face. The shitburger apartment came into focus, and he screamed like a baby drowning in his own muck. He didn’t return to his incredible dream about the big-tittied machine bitch, shoving a Jello pudding pop in her eye socket and laughing and snuggling and beating the shit out of her with his shoes. He woke back up to a floor of empty puke bowls, a dresser covered with dead sheep, empty boxes and wrappers from Star Crunch cookies, huffed cans of “VCR Head Cleaner” bought at a porno store, and a cracked mirror outlined with small white appointment cards and unfilled prescriptions from psychiatrists and parole officers taped to the chipped wood frame.

The street’s painful orchestra of horns, sirens, crack whores, apeshit Italians losing it on their kids with a strap, and loud traffic made me want to spray an MP-5 out of the window. Two men are tearing back the thin blue-green robe over the bitch’s body and trying to tape down an additional harness over her giant monster tits as an orderly wheels in another cart of computer equipment. Two technicians wielding soldering irons and penlights tear open the doors of the first computer and start jerking off into the metal rack, throwing the green rectangles covered with chips and copper on the floor with the power of jizz. They frantically yell like Indians and try to enact some sort of emergency masturbation plan, but it didn’t work. Fox TV owned everything, you cocksuckers.

Within the chaos, doctors are frantically wrestling with vital signs, jabbing needles into anal cavities and arms, plunging synthetic adrenalin and saline into their own veins, playing with industrial-strength marital aids and feeling up hot coeds’ size-D melons. The computer is chiming its own Microsoft death toll, as noxious ozone smoke bellows from the cabinet’s power supply and a technician tries to isolate it from the filtered wall socket. As I closed in on the monitor, just before I woke up, I looked at the graphics of the desktop and the usual conversation started about why I wouldn’t move. I made a modest amount of money at my job as a gay prostitute, but it all went into re-investment or expensive toys or hard drugs. I was never home anyway, so moving into a small unit was reasonable. Of course when you have company over, they notice the slave dungeon, the stench of human flesh, the pieces of skulls used for bowls of fruit-loops. Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.

Sam started with the will as I grabbed some brews for everyone. Jesse had already started on some whore he picked up, and ate her pussy as Sammy went through the paperwork and whacked his fucking bag. Mark just sat and nervously went through Camels, wanting to get the average person run in fear when the thought of having a few ounces of their precious crimson fluid pulled from their arm. I never really fight it like most do, and my apathy toward the entire procedure is most likely a strange departure to the bitch nurses who have to hold down people to look for a vein.

When I arrive at the sperm lab, I produce a form on a prescription pad from my shrink that has a few boxes checked off for the various tests I’ll need done. I’m glad it is a preprinted thing, because I can never read his handwriting, and I’d always like to know exactly what new malady they might be checking me up for. I don’t know how I knocked up that bitch with no uterus, but the judge was real curious to see my sperm count.

As I stare into the fire, I think about the dead hitchhikers in my trunk. The light dissolves to a day over a year ago, and the room changes to a Kentucky Fried Chicken just outside of Colorado Springs. The scene dissolves away from the bedroom I am typing this in, to a table with the trademark red enamel finish. I’m furiously eating flaky biscuits while my friend Nick pours hot gravy in my ear with a funnel. “This will totally get rid of your cold dude, and the extra gravy goes right in your stomach!” I felt like I was going to puke, but two cute high school chicks were at the counter, and I wanted to impress them with my impeccable knowledge of the 50 states and capitals. Then I passed out.

I continue to hit the windshield with a severed leg, over and over. Maybe someone will enter the jumble of chaos and make me jump, a cat at the sound of a can opener, waking from a slumber for my Pavlovian reminder of one of three things I live for: zombies, puke, vagina. A perfect way to go because, for once in my life, I was free. There was no external life, no thought of good and bad, no need to think about when to eat next or how great it would be to have sex with the dead when is the mortgage due or how will I get to the hardware store to pick up some ammonium nitrate to blow up a federal building. The mind was free, and at peace. I was alone and could do whatever I wanted, for the next three or 4 minutes, until the cops showed up.

I enjoyed myself, and drifted, drifted until the cerebellum grew cold and stopped working. As I sat there, the unsung soldier, the wind beneath their wings, the snow buried my corpse, buried my bong, and kept me hidden for what could be forever.

After that, I hung out in front of the drug store.

I finished reading and the lesbians were gone. I hit an elderly woman with a short piece of 2×4 I keep in my pants and ran off with her purse.


Comments are closed.