The Plague

The Great Plague of Vienna

FINGER MY PINKISH GREEN BUTTHOLE. The year I spent in Vienna was a fucked up year. Trust me. The Black Death had already gripped the city. Everywhere you went there were piles of the infected dead. At night, pillars of fire lit the skies as town-doctors burned the bodies, salted with that disgusting mixture of herbs and spiceS. I'd been trolling the east-end, near the floodplain, sort of where the fucking airport is now. Two nights previous, I'd thumbed a young rat-dufus musician from Mödling right in the anal flavorberry. He was playing these pipes that sounded like a cow having a splintered broom handle shoved into it's terror hole whilst being burned alive. I approached him slowly, a deranged smile on my fucked-up face. A bit of turd drool spilled over my lower lip when I revealed two incomplete rows of rotting teeth. He stopped playing, albeit slowly, and nervously gazed at me from beneath his brow. I said, "Satan’s successes are the greatest when he appears with the name of God on his lips." His eyes widened as he took a step back. He giggled uncomfortably, then took a swifter step back when I pealed back my eyelids with my claws and began whispering the dialogue from an 80's Taco Bell commercial. He really began giggling now, except it was more like a scared but inhuman squeal, and he was curling his fingers in and out over his dumbass pipes or lutes or toots or whatever the fuck they were. He started to mutter something inaudible, so, basically unprovoked, I lunged at him with breakneck speed, my dingle kong flopping in the winds like a diseased day old subway tuna sandwich. He crumpled immediately, that terrible giggling spraying the air like graffiti. I relentlessly rained blows upon him with my moto-penis and shoved several hard cheeses into his rectum. In time, he fell unconscious, so I tore off his stinky beans and sloppily devoured them in front of two small children. They were crying. I grabbed up one of the lil buggers and chopped on an ear. The kid shrieked, so I threw her into the Danube before cawing like a crazed crow until the remaining child ran from me and my crooked crook-dick, howling like Harry from Harry and the Hendersons when he's pretending to be a fucking fire engine or some shit. The musician was heaped in a pile over his pipes, sorta moaning, emitting here and there a very weak giggle. I bashed him in the head with my elvin heel and he rolled over with a fart. Then I rubbed on his crawl wiggler until he jizzed diarrhea. He looked like a pile of elephant shit in the dying light of the day, lying there in the street, in a puddle of his own red blood. I finished him off by shoving a can of Trader Joe's red salmon into his throat, then tap-danced Puttin' on the Ritz on his FUCKING chest. He flailed like a mentally retarded orangutan for a good ten, fifteen minutes as I went through this horrible routine. Passersby bellowed and waddled off, gesticulating like retards, pointing in my direction over their shoulders. A cop even tried to intervene. He was wearing a kerchief over his mouth and was waving a little stick at me. "Unhand that man!" he shouted in German. I spun like a wild top, my teeth drippings with goo and my EYES red with blood. I bounded from the dufus toward the flatfoot. The copper hollered something about Jesus and fell to his knees, his hands shielding his face. I landed right on top of his god damn head, an awful "CRUNCH" sang through his body as he doubled over under the wait of my hell cannon. He emitted a brutal cloud of flatulence, to which I could not help abarfin'. The musician was still now, he had expired, SO I BUTT-FUCKED THE CORPSE NATURALLY AND GENTLY WITH BALM FROM SOME OLD CHINESE FAGGOT IN NAPLES.

This is February, 1679.

About an hour after the murders I sorta came to in an awful haze. My eyes were foggy. I felt like a horse had surgically removed the top of my skull and then pounded on my nude brain with its smelly demon cock. The musician lay at my feet, a rancid puddle of urine had collected under his battered body in the shape of the Olympic rings. I stood with a fecal puff that caused a nearby transient to bare his teeth and hiss in pain. I wiggled my hips and shook my booty in his face until he belched, rolled his eyes into the back of his head and scurried away.

I needed a drink. 

Most of these shanties and shit-holes were boarded up, loaded with diseased rat fleas lodged in clothing, carpets, rags, grain, and shit. Those fuckers survived from six weeks up to a year and left welts the size of taters all over my balls. I popped a few of them juicy fuckers scrambling around on a rotting window sill and they burst in my mouth like gushers of hell. Even the fleas were terrified of me.

Well after a wizzz that drowned a small weeble village, I stumbled into the only open tavern I could find. I barked like a dog for twenty minutes before this idiot came shuffling in from this dank cave like back room. He smelled like anal. Twenty-nine pear ales. That's what I ordered. This dumbass, a doofus smile from ear to ear, but eyes rolled upward - looked like Corky from Life Goes On and Lawrence Fishburne mixed together with a dash of Herve Villache - lazily sloshed the ale into the 29 steins, said nothing, actually he smelled more like a camp outhouse after a busy summer of never being emptied. He wouldn't or couldn't look at me, just kept that moronic smile on his face and his eyes on the ceiling. I still can't figure out how he could see what he was doing. And when he was done, he shuffled back into that back room, where I began hearing stomach-turning, guttural moaning and farting noises for a good hour or so straight. I remember I called in after him at one point asking if they had a pool table or ping pong and every time I would speak the moaning and farting would get louder and more violent to the point where I had to plug my ears. There were also these awful splatting noises, like a garden hose spraying against a brick wall, accompanied by grotesque gagging noises and wining, so I gave up on the pool. Just kept wincing and spilling my pear ale when another outburst would occur. Fuck it stank. The moaning and shit sounds from the back room were just as mind-numbing as ever and I began to feel sick.Well, when someone started whispering "Grandma, is that you? It me it me it Tim Tim," from out of that god forsaken hell hole of a back room, that's when I decided to step out for a smoke.

The bells of the city were ringing fucking nonstop - it was driving me into a murderous rage. God damnit. NON-FUCKING-STOP. GOD DAMNIT. I was about to take a puff of heroin or PCP and get wet in the anal, when this dink of a motherfucker ran right into me. The pansy piece of shit was wearing this ridiculous conical mask and boots that made him look like a dumbass duck. He groped at my taters, whimpering like a puppy and tried to give me an enema. He couldn't have been more than four feet tall. I tried batting him away, but that only seemed to agitate him and he began frantically rubbing these ointments on mY ass that smelled of human feces. I beat him to the ground with an angry fist before he went skittering away laughing like a poisoned hyena. "What the fuck," I managed before disappearing back into the bar. The horrible moaning noises had ceased and I was down to my last drink. No one else was in the bar. I took a stink squirt where I sat. The crack of my pants filled like a balloon and the greenish plop of turd squished through my breeches like spoiled yogurt through a squeezebox. From somewhere in the shadowy corners of the bar, I heard a woman barf. I turned my head this way and that, but couldn't see anyone. It didn't matter, though, because by this point I was talking loudly to myself about the Savings and Loans Crisis of the 1980s and how "William Black was a piece of shit!!!!" It was fairly dark outside by now, so I pissed on the bar (a high-pitched hissing sound followed by greenish steam or smoke rose from the piss) then I headed back into the night without paying.

I still had those god damned pipes with me so I figured I'd play a tune or two for the townsfolk even though there wasn't a living soul on the streets save a few dark figures scurrying through the alleys with rags over their faces. In the distance, you could see the lights from the fires of the dead. Their reflections fluttered and flickered in the busted windows of closed shops and homes. To my right stood the blackened foundation of a small church, still smoldering from whenever the vandals had chosen it. It was at this point that I got into a terrible bout of shouting "nigger faggot" over and over again I couldn't stop! I'd scream it in between terrible notes of hell from those god awful pipes. They tasted like sweat and smelled like urine. Well it went on like this for a few hours until I found myself walking along the river. Tired now, a nine inch turd hanging from my breeches like a rotting tail, I rolled into a piece of sushi and collapsed in a gutter flowing with shit and period blood. The mixture bubbled around my face and I gargled a little lap or four for good measure before belching human jizz and losing consciousness.

I'm not sure what idiot needs to keep his day job, but at some point in the night I was mistaken for dead and hauled by rat cart to the burn pits. I awoke in a festering mound of deceased plaguers. God damnit it smelled like a lump of shrimp burps left to mold in the hot hot heat for a weak inside a tin can. I vomited immediately, then tried to roll out of it and my face went right into the tortured nest of balls and penile of a dead nude old dude. I barfed again and devoured the moist meal of putrid frank and beans. I threw up sixteen more times before shitting myself. An hour later, I finally crawled from the horrid bin of shit. Fuck me. I struggled with the hangover from hell for a good three days before moving on to Switzerland where I spent four months banging blonde bimbos and working as a casino manager in Zurich. A few months later I was fired for replacing chips with groin fungus and clown cakes.

Alejandro

The Assassination of King George I of Greece

aLEJANDRO. That's what I called him. What I called him. Me me me I i I. CORSHNED. He was a real pathetic rat fuck. I mean the several weeks we had him in custody, he'd probably puked and sharted himself at least fifty+ times. IT had gotten to the point where I remember pleading with him, "Are you kidding me?" only to realize I myself had sharted. 

God damned gyro juice from the cunt on the beach. This asshole slept in his shop, that's why I call him a cunt. Never wore a shirt neither. Smelled like mothballs and farm animals. 

ANYway, we're going to town on aLEJANDRO, beating him something awful with pipes I'd wrested from my shit rat apartment on Corfu. I preferred the tongue tearer, which was pretty brutal. It was like an oversized pair of scissors, perfect for SCHRIPPING out that nasty lil muscle girls just seem to hate. My tongue always looks like an odd mutant, like a slug and a bit of dog turd mixed together and then salted and then blown up with a fucking hand grenade. 

Unfortunately, I'd left my tongue tearer in the toilet where I'd dropped it during a fuck binge with Irish, Downs teens the weekend prior. The Greeks loved the real fucked up shit, like locking an unlucky sonofabitch in a dark room, tied up in a wooden barrel and neck deep in water. Then they'd overfeed them and douse their faces with honey and milk. After a few days, the poor bastard would be swimming in their own shit, maggots and flies literally eating them alive. I loved these sessions though, cuz I'd creep in there and read from Clifford the Big Red Dog. Nude, flatulent, horny. In whispers, I'd get real elaborate with my gesticulations and I could hear the victim struggling in waste, crying. Then I'd blow my poisoned load all over their face and the flies would go apeshit. That intense "bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz" noise filling the room. I'd drop a deuce into their barrel and sneak back out not long after.

So WHAT. aLEJANDRO had murdered the king. Guess I should have said this earlier. George I was a fucktard anyway, but his policies were reasonable. His son was a gargantuan turd, which I suppose poisoned my eyes. I plundered and pilfered heavily during the First Balkan, while Georgie was jerking the longpole in Denmark. But when he rode victorious into Thessaloniki, those patchy DONG STARGS, the Venizelos, and his period stained crown prince of a cocksucking son, I had to drop the routine. That's how I got this job. The Hellenic Gendarmerie. Bunch of assholes, really. They gave no shit about anyone and were basically militarized. So when the Balkan shitfest sputtered out, they were recruiting. It was a shit job, but all I had to do was suck the pecker sucker's bean lodge and go through this three day course and I was inspector titrot fuckface by the end of the week. TGIF you bozos.

This is the evening of May 6th, 1913.

It was a Thursday when aLEJANDRO dropped George with a single bullet through the heart. He was drunk, but so was I. I remember I was drooling over these two small kids on the beach. Those god damned igneous beach rocks that looked like Powder's testicles. I'd been on lle almost the entire weekend and was out for some DOLMAS and franks. The children were crying, as I'd produced my shriveled pecker and was slurping pickle juice from a used condom. This breathless mush brain almost tackled me some point thereafter, trying with all his might to tell me about the assassination. I remember thinking, "Finally, a fucking job." He looking confused when I vomited on his elvin high heels, though this mattered not, for I was already on my way to the god damned palace.  

The Gendies were already going hard on aLEJANDRO. He was nude from the waist down. I charged in so hard I spilled my coffee all over the attendant douche bag mother fucker. I wasn't too sore about this, however, because you see I'd ganked an apple martini from this Italian psycho faggot that lived in my building, and dumped it in my morning coffee. It tasted like apple dog shit. Well after the coffee incident, I righted myself, apologized and began my interrogation. The others, who lovingly referred to me as "the specialist", were gawking and stupid. I threatened them with my peenwang and they backed off. aLEJANDRO just sat there, bound to a chair and shivering. I started out smooth by asking where he was from. We talked, albeit idly, about his time in New York City. He talked about his take on politics. We talked a lot about that. He seemed stuck on that shit. How governments were bad and all this shit. Jesus, after a while I noticed I was salivating and had leaked a little in the shorts, so I barged into the conversation with an alarming, "I AM THE ANGEL, APOLLYON, AND YOU KNOW WHAT I EAT? SOCIALISTS, YOU DREAMY EYED COCKSUCKER!!"

This was, needless to say, somewhat startling for Mr. Alexandros Schinas, the retarded anarchist from

Volos. Here I was, butting into our pleasantries with this incredible statement of origin, meaning and power. The Gendies at my back retreated swiftly into the hall, their shuffling the only sound now. With a nod, the lights went out and aLEJANDRO began to cry. I undressed slowly, taking care not to brush him too harshly with my baleen man fur. In the darkness there, our mutual quivering was the closest thing to love that I'd come to in a thousand centuries. You see, I loved aLEJANDRO. He was the new light, the new order. But I had a job to do. "Now, it's all over," I whispered, as I collected the light from the room and pushed it into his chest. Shortly thereafter, he began to scream. I lifted his naked body over my head, him screaming the whole time, and chucked him out the window of our little three story office building. He fell to the cobbled streets of Thessaloniki and ultimately, to his death. I remember leaning out the shards of window to see peasants staring at the body and back up at me. "WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT YOU LITTLE PILES OF PINK SHIT?" I hollered. They went scurrying. 

I quit the Gendarmerie not long after that night, having murdered my light for a king I never knew. In the coming months, my lifestyle changed dramatically. I turned to the drink. By the end of the year, I found myself coming to in a Paris motel room; Henry Miller, naked on the floor before my throbbing wand of shit.

Hell, we just got here.

The Spring Offensive

The spring offensive or Kaserschlact, was a real fucking toilet plug for the krauts. These shorthanded hairy fuddle fucks decided that a series of attacks along the Western Front was a good idea. Lol I had this real terrible thing going on in my diarrhea manufacturing plant and all the workers had gone home with the flu if you catch my drift. Of course you don’t, you’re probably a one-eyed fucktard named Paul living somewhere in the San Fernando Valley.

ANYway, these idiots are running around like retards and it’s just pissing me off cuz I got stuck on this god damn train a week earlier when this French soldier boy of the la Division 167e. I’d been ram-housing this bent little tard until one morning over a quiet espresso - that tasted like dog cum - and a pair of stale croissants, he coerces me into going off to war with him. At one point during this shit breakfast, he burped quietly. I don't know why, but it pissed me off. Like a lunatic I bounded on the small table we shared and sprayed doody fish water from my thriving man-horn all over his fucking face. He puked and it smelled like summer sausage and cat food, so I puked. Unfortunately, before I could really process what I'd agreed to, I ended up murdering him in a jealous rage with a pair of greenish-stained pantyhose after discovering a used condom in his mouth. I later realized it was my used condom and I was embarrassed that things went so south so fast in our relationship.

So here we are, me with his body tied to a fuckin’ leash nude as the day he was sharted into this world, and me half naked from the waist down and wearing his battle fatigues up top. Well these douchey Frenchies are all marching along and this rubbery asshole grabs me and with the most annoying fucking voice I think I may have ever heard tells me some shit in French. Well of course I’d been drinking. I had me probably eighteen bottles of cheap French vino in the last four hours. There used to be this shop run by a mungaloid dipshit who lived with his cousin or whatever in the stank apartment above us. They’d sell me wine at whatever price I said because I’d raped them a number of times. The cousin was a pretzel-shaped paraplegic and the mungaloid would get all hissy when I’d shove my parking cone into his muddy-huh-uh watering hole. And I’d hiss really fucked up things into his ear, like lines from Clueless.

This is June 15, 1918.

So this barf muncher grabs me and I drop the leash with poor French soldier boy on the end of this just lying in the gutter and I wish him farewell by blowing a snotrocket at his bare ass sticking in the air like a pile of gelatinous horse SEMEN after one of my burlesque shows in Minsk. I’m drunk. I mean I am pretty fucking lit. I am dragging this fucking rifle, Meunier A6 I believe it was. The thing was a beast. I remember I kept firing it off and screaming “what’s up there, flapjacks?” and all these garlic stinking Frenchmen would turn and stare at me and I queef and reveal my smoldering golf balls. One dude barfed and when the dude behind him got a whiff he burped then barfed tOo. It sounded like two ducks quacking.

We end up on this fucking train all packed in like boobs and I start freaking out because I don’t have any liquor. I realized I have about a gram of raw sweet chewy shoved into my cowabunghole so I wrest that out, spraying a bit of blood on the boots of the darsh next to me (I flipped him off and took the cigarette out of his mouth then put it out on the tip of my penis and said “scellé pour de bon” "sealed for good" and winked at him.) I then proceeded to smoke the crack and blow the shit in his face until he passed out with a pffffffrt. I got so high I was doing Lenny Bruce stand up for the next hour before I passed out in the shit bucket. Well we were near the Marne River when they opened the doors and started this fucked up whistling. I only knew it was the Marne because I used to dump French prostitutes nearby.

This big prick keeps pulling me by the sleeve causing me to miss my little pop shots I keep taking at the asses of men up front. He keeps yelling something inaudible so I finally whirl around and bust him right in the no no nuggets. He belches something awful and his eyes go as wide as saucers. He drops his rifle and his mouth opens up huge. I bayonet him and leave him in the mud. Then I turned to keep following these idiots cuz I like takin’ pop shots at their asses. Before I know it, there’s a full on war going on around me. I find myself wandering around with shells going off right and left. For a brief period of time (it may have been hours) I found myself huffing mustard gas near this pile of rotting corpses I’d been ejaculating profusely and had a bullet wound in my shoulder. I was so fucking high still from the crack that I was jumping up and down waving my arms like a bird and singing with a terrible, cracking voice, “WE ARE THE WORLD, WE ARE THE CHILDREN” whilst shitting myself and blowing snotty loads like a hose from hell.

All these idiots are running up this god damn hill, Bellau Wood Hill 142. That's what I read off a paper I found on the body of a corporal I murdered with my big toe. Yes you dingus, you read that right. “This is fucking retarded,” I blurted as I prepared to gargle piss from a horse hooved puddle. Of course I lapped some before filling up my canteen. Well as the battle raged around me, I did an about face and headed back toward Paris. I still had no pants on and my frank and beans were kinda flopping around like a diseased cucumber over a pair of rotting roma tomatoes. The lines of troops marching the other way all shrieked like little girls and I just farted that green gas I have and kept walking. Somewhere close to town I ditched my rifle when it’d jammed as I fired on children in the villages I passed. 

Two days later I awoke up in some brothel with this ginormous Guido motherfucker standing over me, his hand out. I have half of the dead body of a French prostitute glued to my pecker and my shoulder has gangrene. I literally woke up screaming, "VIVA LA FRANCE!" 

I fucking hate France.