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Something Wonderful is going to Happen! (Installment 2, Chapters 2 & 3)
To Other Installments:
The following are the 2nd and 3rd chapters of a novel or novella, dependent on the ending length, which I will be submitting periodically in installments. It is a satire of sorts with elements of dark comedy. It follows a main character with a clearly defined morality that is well removed from normalcy.
This story and its subsequent installments are graphic, vulgar, and very likely per the definitions of some, blasphemous. IF YOU ARE EASILY OFFENDED, DON’T READ THIS STORY!!!
The Book of Guy: Chapter 2
It didn’t take me long to realize that a man’s power and subsequent domain over pu##y is somewhat limited by his surroundings. For example, a man in Freedom might gain much of its best tail, especially if like in the case of Preacher Johnson, the Bible is skewed to attain it. But what of the money one needs to keep this herd content? My problem had never been in attaining pu##y but in having the resources to keep it locked away.
Well, in Freedom the prospects of financial power were not much different than they were in the early 1900’s: agriculture. Only now it is all but impossible for a hapless young man to start anything new. Unlike in Preacher Johnson’s day, an upstart farm on a shoestring budget could never be made prosperous. Farms are big business ran by major corporations where hired pee-ons run massive tractors in the cultivation of thousands of acres. The days of making a go of it with forty acres and a mule are long gone.
Like Johnson, I could be a preacher. Preaching offers as many opportunities of getting good pu##y as it ever did, but what of the money? An evangelist in a small town like Freedom could only embezzle so much before the town yelled foul and took out vengeance militia style. And these are not the times of Preacher Johnson’s and Brigham Young’s, where a person can simply migrate away from things and start their own community anew.
The reality that meeting my dreams would require a move to a major city began to become more and more apparent. But just how this would work was still unclear. It was in the bathroom during a dry and emotionally charged sh#t, a place where most of my best analytical thought takes place, that I began to formulate a plan. My thought process went somewhat as follows:
We are taught that there are men and there are women. True enough, but there’s more to it than that. There are men and there are women. But among these men there are those who want to be ruled and those who are the rulers. Women are, of course, just women--meek, subservient f##k-trophies that they are. There are women who are sexually desirable and those that are not, but beyond this subdivision there is little more depth. A woman in power is like a turtle on a fence post: damned if you know how it got there, and lord knows it doesn’t belong.
So we have a country of a decent percentage of men who want to rule, a likewise percentage of men who want to be ruled in part, and women whose instinctual goal is to be entirely dominated. So what separates the men who want to rule from those who are able to become kings?
Well let’s look at this Shrub Jr. in the Whitehouse. He became President by rigging an election for the first four years. He gained his kinglike status by taking advantage of the camelf##kers who blew up those buildings and spinning it to convince folks that democracy doesn’t work and that in essence he should not be our president, but our King and thusly be able to circumvent democracy wherever he wants for the good of his flock.
The whole thing is so impressive to me. Yes. I want to be King like this Shrub Jr. But I’ll need a better name--only thing worse than being a Shrub is being a Shrub Jr. The whole thing screams insignificance.
The main conclusion drawn from all of this sh#t-thought was that a King must A) have a penis and B) believe or at least convince others that it is his right to be King. The difference between men who rule and those who want to rule is a conscience. Those whose conscience lends them to believing they may at times be wrong are destined to fail at reaching their absolute goals and those whose conscience tells them they are always right are destined to succeed.
It’s like this whole Manifest Destiny thing with the Indians or the slavery thing with the blacks. It was never about racism with the folks that got us killing the men, women, and children of these heritages--at least with the powers that be. “I want that piece of land over there, so let’s convince everyone the people on it aren’t human and kill the bastards,” or “Gosh this work is hard. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could make some people do it for us for free? Hey, to simplify things let’s have some of them ni##ers shipped over to do it. That way if they try to run away they’ll stick out like a sore thumb and they’ll be no difficulty in pointing out to people who they’re supposed to hate.”
For the powers none of this was racism; it was a color-coding system. It was a simple way to get what they wanted. Racism was the vessel used to convince others, the ones with consciences who didn’t believe they had the divine right to oppress, that it was ok to lie, steal, and murder in the name of their Kings.
All I needed was to believe in my right to be King and the knowhow to overthrow a kingdom. Overthrow Shrub Jr.? No, I didn’t want that headache. In the end this country’s politics always comes back to the whole democracy thing. Shrub Jrs. come and go and politicians always answer to somebody: oil, tobacco, industry, the mob. The leaders of these groups that are outside the system are the people who don’t answer to anyone and go out and grab what they want. These are the people with the power to own the pu##y.
But what Kingdom could I overthrow? I needed a King who was weak like Shrub Jr., but outside the legal system like the owner of an oil company or a Columbian drug lord. A kingdom to overthrow? What kingdom would I overthrow?
The Book of Myssona: Chapter 1
I’d be worth a lot more if it wasn’t for the glass eye. At least that’s what Slappy always say. I’d be worth fixin up then, new titties and whatever. But as it is I’m a low dollar trick. I do a little better than I might would cuzz I’m only fifteen. I remember when I first ran away cuzz I couldn’t stand what Mom had done, and I wanted rid of her. Just couldn’t stand havin to stay there and hate her all the time, so I figured some distance might help.
I remember thinkin Slappy was a funny name. It didn’t take long for me to realize why a pimp like Slappy might be called Slappy. Could’ve as easily named him Kicky or Whacky or even Stabby at times. He wasn’t real happy about takin me on at first. I had to show him how I would do anything. Some of it he made me do, it hurt real bad. It still hurts but you get used to it. Slappy say if they pay right I do it, and he showed me all the "its" personally. If I didn’t, well, he got slappy, and sometimes he just get slappy to let me know he can if he feel like it and there isn’t a thing I can do about it. But I have a home, and I have food, and no mom to be mad at all the time.
I look pretty white too, so that helps. Dad’s white. My tits is pretty pitiful, but some guys like that no tits look and my downstairs is as good as any, or at least I’ve been told.
I’m asthmatic. My breathin has never been good. Sometimes it get real bad, especially when I’m sleepin. I always dream I’m being choked to death. Can’t ever make out whose doin it though. Don’t need to know who, just need to know there’s always someone there to choke the life out of ya. There is no hope here.