La Desesperacion 1

"From the crib to the grave

You live as a slave

And that's just a matter of fact"

― ODD TV, Illusions

Government, in concert with an ignorant populace, made my existence a sequence from Halloween ― during which Michael Myers relentlessly pursues Jamie Lee Curtis. My days were drowned in fear; my nights deluged in anxiety.

I wasn't sure how long I'd last, fending off flies ― doubling as "upstanding humans" ― buzzing my mom's sleepwalking carcass. I was a good person, attempting to keep a genocidal system from murdering my mother. As a result, I was suffering to insane degree.

Zombies lusted what little remained of my mom's brain, after "doctors" diced it with antidepressants ― nothing more than "legalized" street drugs. Bankruptcy lawyers, and IRS freakazoids crawled out of the shit heaps. They feasted on my mother ― who was in and out of assisted living facilities, emergency rooms, and psych wards.

In desperation, I'd raced for the desert. Because I have a conscience, I took my mom with me, and was being hounded to the tune of well over $1,000,000, by a bureaucracy eager to obliterate everything.

"Turn on your money machine for five seconds, and leave us alone, assholes!"

I'd done nothing wrong. I'd spoken against the oppression that was destroying humanity, and tried to keep people from killing my mother. As such, I'd done everything right. It was an apathetic society that failed us, and courted its own extinction.

Due to my mom's situation, I weighed all of 110 pounds. It's tough to retain weight, when you're ambulance chasing, and enslaving yourself 60-plus hours a week.

Plumes of chocolate, coconut cream, and Fruity Pebbles filled the air, as folks vaped in dark corners of the carnal cave.

Somebody's nude girlfriend bent unnecessarily far over the pool table, in order to sink an extremely easy shot.

Breasts carefully concealed in corporate "America," were now proudly displayed.

Nude at a crotch club, I reclined in a lawn chair, stroking my glistening groin.

A diminutive frame obviously didn't matter, as a giddy husband approached. "My wife says you have a huge cock, and wants to fuck it. You interested?"

"Oh, yeah!" I responded, catching the stare of the farm-fed, Midwest maiden, sporting a cotton candy beehive.

"Care if I take pics?" the spirited spouse held up his iPhone.

"Does Barack Obama mind telling lies?" I thought to myself.

"I know we're not supposed to have cells in here, but I gotta get shots of that monster stretching the missus," the man exclaimed.

A nod and a wink, and the bubbly beauty ― from a region where corn is the main crop ― was standing over me.

"This is Melissa," the man introduced his wife, as he marked his territory, by slapping her ass. "She loves big dicks ― bigger, the better. We hit Hedonism every year, so she can get her share of BBC. Speakin' of which, that's a hell of a hog you got there. You should be makin' a million doin' porn."

"May I?" Melissa motioned to my straining staff.

"Of course," I pointed my protrusion in her direction.

Fumbling fingers ― complete with gnawed nails ― glided over my swollen shaft.

"Jesus!" she exclaimed, fondling my huevos rancheros, and scrambling my eggs.

I savored the moment. At 5 AM ― when this particular swing shack closed ― I'd become Clark Kent again, the "S" on my chest stripped, shredded, and pureed, only after it'd been nuked, and burnt at the stake. Almost every night, I'd wield Thor's hammer, and every day, I'd be breaths from vagrancy.

After retiring to a private room, and adding another Number to my list, I ventured back into the porn parlor. There, a cerulean-haired stripper worked the pole, like the last remaining "job" in a hick town, where 100% of the "unemployed" are homeless.

At the edge of the sweat-soaked stage, I sat naked ― again in the rickety lawn chair ― stroking the only 9 1/2 inch appendage in the desert dive. Fortuitously, said salience was located between my anorexic thighs.

A minute in, and the dancer sauntered over.

"Your hand looks 'unemployed,' " I quipped.

The woman giggled, less comprehension than Donald Trump reading a book of ethics.

"May I offer it a 'job?' " I inquired, directing my dong toward her.

Taking my protuberance in hand, Rue dropped to her knees. "I just wish I could suck it," her lips trembled, closer to my cock than the president is to the Devil.

"I won't stop you," I exclaimed, as the woman drooled over my penis, the way government does military pensions.

"I know. I have to stop myself. I have herpes."

As uncomfortable as wearing underwear six sizes too small ― with a barbed wire waistband ― I recoiled. Such stated, I was grateful for Rue's candor.

Grabbing my dick, her friend took charge. "Well, I'm gonna fuck this heavy meat," she exclaimed. Leading me to the couple's room, she kept her promise.

Over the course of the evening, I was luckier than Yuri Yudin on the Dyatlov Pass excursion. A cocoa brown beauty bathed my boner in slick saliva, and a Goth Goddess slathered my sausage in natural lube.

Somewhere, a jukebox kicked to life, and Sinatra asked that timeless question, "How lucky can one guy be?"

Watching Maury Povich inseminate galloping camel on daytime TV ― while members of your own species annihilate each other, over borders that don't exist ― is less intelligent than Kim Kardashian, post-lobotomy. Most of us don't realize ― nor care ― we're destroying ourselves.

I find such exceedingly stressful. My sole respite is sex. It's serendipitous I get my share. Such is the only thing keeping me sane.

— authored by Hugh Mungus