Ripped Off Like A Mattress Tag 1

"Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away."

― Philip K. Dick

He'd fucked so much, he'd worn a hole in his fuck boots. Yes, these were his "fuck boots," as he referred to them.

He only donned the footwear in question at swing clubs, threesomes, foursomes, moresomes, orgies, house parties, glory holes, and porn theaters. Whatever mileage these bastards exhibited was attributable to his attempts to grip tile, or moldy motel room rug, while thrusting hysterically.

The fact these fuckers were six months old, and their treads worn smoother than polished gems, screamed out the business end of a megaphone!

Guys like the fuck junky weren't supposed to get laid, let alone laid like celebrities, kings, and porn stars. Yet, here he was ― in a swing club ― atop the tenth woman for the evening, grindin' out the frustration of bein' a slave.

All over Sin City, the ignorant flocked to nightclubs, firebombing their livers, pleading with equally inebriated, female patrons to simply provide a phone number. Ten digits: It was the same amount of pussies he'd perforated on this brisk, autumn eve.

What drunken dipshit ― droppin' pick-up lines, like V2 rockets on Britain ― ever took 10 women home, from a bar, in one night, and fucked 'em?! It hadn't happened; not in the entire history of humanity aboard Spaceship Earth. Like Donald Trump pondering, "Should I pursue a lucrative 'career' as a Wendy's drive-thru cashier?" it never occurred.

Based upon the fact no drunk guy ever brought 10 women home from a pub, in an evening, and had intercourse with 'em, why would anybody believe such would become a trend?

Since innumerable swingers had humped 10 women in a night, didn't it seem anyone desirous of fucking people like multi-level marketing, should become a swinger?

Of course! But we're not dealin' this deck in a logical paradigm. We're tossin' our chips in a pot where people maniacally scramble to collect worthless pieces of paper; i.e. cash. We're lettin' it ride on cagey "commanders" ― a group who've ordered us, as well as themselves, nuked into an apocalypse. We're hopin' against hope a bunch of "gods" ― for which there's never been a single sign of existence ― are gonna save us.

Thus, why singles bars outnumber swing clubs probably 100,000 to one. Because we exist in an ass backwards society.

Amidst it all, the fuck junky emerged from the jangling shackles. Behind him, sparks flew from somebody's nuclear-tipped, gas-powered ass widener.

Beneath a hot desert Moon, tfj stumbled to the outdoor fire pit, at the sex shanty. By adding 10 new Numbers to the list ― accomplishing far more than any lunatic president, with their useless decrees ― he'd done himself a tremendous service. Now, it was time to reflect.

His efforts had been painstaking. One might incorrectly assume the night's tally was nothing more than a joyous jaunt from one pussy to the next. A velvet portrait of Nancy Pelosi taking black cock, will hang in the Oval Office, before puttin' up 10 Digits is an easy affair.

Less than a flyweight, our hero had heroically battled 250 pound men, in his quest to jockey for position around three open gangbangs. He'd dropped his pants twice, displaying dong for a triumvirate of tarts sizing up suitors. For an hour and a half, he'd reclined nude, maintaining a continual hard-on, showing off for prospective patrons.

In between, he'd been tasked with conjuring up clever comebacks, and jocular opening lines, light-headed from perpetually producing a 9 1/2 inch erection.

None of this broached the dozen denials he'd endured ― enough rejection to cause one to swan dive into Caesars' pool...from the top of the Stratosphere.

It'd been worth it, though, when he limped to the crackling blaze, planted his absent ass in a rusted lawn chair, and reflected on his victories across the bawdy battlefield. Ten women in six hours; an accomplishment pick-up artists couldn't comprehend, as they wielded witty wands, in pursuit of fake phone numbers―

"Holy fuck!" tfj's mind raced, dipping his hand into his pocket ― which was emptier than political promises. His car keys! They were more conspicuously absent than morality at the White House.

"Fuck! Fuck!! Fuck!!" he waxed grandiloquently.

"Don't panic, man. Don't fuckin' panic!" he self-admonished. "No keys, no problem. They're probably on the front seat of your car," he told himself.

"Take a few breaths. Stand up. Head out to the parking lot, and―"

The plan sounded solid as a mountain. Only problem is all mountains are comprised of nothing but atoms. Atoms are composed of almost completely empty space. Hence, every mountain is anything but solid!

When the fuck junky wandered out to the parking lot, he discovered that mountain. Not only were his keys not in his car, but his car wasn't there. In the spot where it had been, was an empty space.

Tfj couldn't believe what he was gazing upon. It registered with his brain, but only in that nebulous region ― perhaps The Outer Limits ― where things may or may not be.

Were his eyes receiving this information correctly?

Was his brain validly interpreting the input?

Did he just forget where he'd parked?!

When all other vehicles had departed the lot for the evening, it was apparent tfj had been ripped off like a mattress tag. The platitudinous smoke having cleared, his car had been purloined. He'd been in Vegas no more than a month, and the jalopy that had transported him to multitudinous gangbangs, one night stands, orgies, and swing clubs, was gone.

He pieced together the events that led up to his predicament:

For the past six hours, he'd been nude, thrusting zealously atop close to a dozen dirty damsels. All the while, his pants had remained balled-up ― like an angry fist fighting totalitarianism ― in a corner of the swing club.

Since he kept his car keys in his trouser pocket, one can deduce another patron had stolen the llaves in question, while our hero was humping. From there, it was a short trip to the parking lot, to determine which foot fit which glass slipper, and steal the corresponding vehicle.

"Welcome to fabulous Las Vegas, son!" Here three weeks, and tfj already had his lone mode of transportation stolen.

That said, such would be the catalyst for ingenuity. The fuck junky would no longer keep his keys in his pants, when copulating at fuckfests. Rather, he devised a double sock system that provided pockets for nude swingers, desirous of storing possessions on themselves, while frolicking.

By wearing two knee-length socks on each foot, he was able to create a natural pouch between the pairs. It was here he would stash his cell phone, condoms, keys, and lube, while wandering naked through sex scenarios across the planet.

— authored by Hugh Mungus; a.k.a. the fuck junky