Note: Like many works of classic literature, this owes inspiration to a 4chan greentext:
"i went to a katy perry concert in dublin a few years ago, you have to idea how much i always wanted to shag her, obviously i didnt and never will, BUT, a bit of my dried cum made contact with katy perry that night, wonder how? i brought a pouch full of skittles covered in my jizz to the concert and just threw them at katy perry one at the time like every couple of minutes, i wasnt too away from the stage but she was always moving around so it was hard to get a good shot but yea i hit her with one and it bounced off her leg it was so hot i almost came"
Magic.
Black magic.
He grunted obscenely, hunched over double, humping his fist. The air of his dark, foetid flat pulsed with the rhythm of what he was doing, like Poe's heartbeat.
Fap, fap, fap...
A bag's worth of skittles lay spread out on the table, tracked by the gunsight of his oozing penis. Rounded, smooth, and shiny, the skittles resembled eggs. Perhaps Katy Perry's eggs.
The thought of impregnating her didn't just tip him over the edge, it
drove
him off in a Formula 1 racer.
Sperm tore through his shaft. His mind
detonated
, igniting into a crucible of burning, seething noise, a chemical storm that obliterated thought; awareness; consciousness itself. Hard, muscle-numbing spasms thudded through his hips--one desperate surge after another, pain woven against pleasure, a
opus magnum
symphony of dirt and hate.
He ejaculated with a firehose's force. Cum-ropes surged and pulsed over the skittles, drenching their vivid candy hues with dead white. Jet after jet of splooge belched from his piss hole until he ran down to empty. Panting, stars spinning through his mind, he reeled, gripped the table's edge...but didn't fall. That pleased him. It was good to have some sort of control, as he fell through the void.
His gasps calmed. The thudding in his mind subsided. He glanced at the clock.
Fuck.
He was running late for the show.
You couldn't be late. Not on the day of destiny.
He scooped the jizz-coated skittles into a ziplock bag. A stray rope of jizz had nearly hit the other thing on the table: the spellbook he'd stolen from his sister.
A WITCH'S GUIDE TO BLACK MAGIC
A funny thing. Stare long enough at the words BLACK MAGIC, and the first fades away, leaving only the second.
Magic. Yes. He wanted magic. And he didn't give a fuck what color it was.
* * *
Showtime.
He stood in the middle of an endless line that warped and wefted its way to the entrance of Dublin's O2 Arena. Teenybopper tweens ahead of him, teenybopper tweens behind him, a random smattering of poofters, and him at the center; anonymous, a gray hoodie drawn up over his head, twiddling his thumbs, feeling sick with guilt despite not having done anything yet.
There's no way this works, right?
In the spellbook were rituals of love and lust. Step-by-step guides detailing how to snare a boy's heart using a shard of quartz and your menstrual blood (he'd adjusted the recipe to accomodate his own bodily fluids). The trick had been to find something called a
correspondence
; an item or object spiritually connected with the target you want to fall in love with you.
For Katy Perry, he'd chosen skittles, because it seemed that she was a living skittle. Colorful, delicious, and fake. A pleasure both unhealthy and irresistable.
He'd activated the correspondence with his sperm, and now all that remained was for Katy to touch it.
At the gate, security guards stopped him, metal-wanded him, then allowed him through. They would have had questions about the strange ziplock bag if they'd seen it, but he'd tucked it under the tongue of one of his sneakers.
The enormous amphitheater was standing room only. It blazed with lights and lasers and streamers. The opening sets had already finished, and Katy's had begun. He was packed shoulder to shoulder with moshing Katykats; they flung and jostled him around, like a bouy tossed in a sexually-confused ocean.
A good six inches taller than most of the crowd, he could easily see her on stage.
Do you ever feel like a plastic bag
Drifting through the wind
Wanting to start again?
Slowly, carefully, he pushed his way through the crowd. He needed to be close to
her.
Soon, he was at the edge of the platform. With freezing hands touching the cold metal barricade, he peered up to the stage.
...and a perverted thrill gusted through him like an arctic wind.
Katy Perry. Twenty feet away.
She wore purple thigh-high heel boots. Her voluptous body was poured into a shiny purple rubber latex leotard, which gripped her curves like groping, lustful hands. So goddamn hot. So goddamn fuckable.
Thick legs. Broad hips. A snatched waist. Huge white breasts stuffed into a low-cut neckline, where they billowed like the mainsails of a ship. Several quarts of pale titflesh bounced, swung, and flew maddeningly as she gyrated her hips and shoulders.
She was constantly in motion, sprinting from one end of the stage to the other, exploding through drill-sergeant-choreographed dance moves that set parts of her abundant body jiggling and wobbling. The audience clumsily tried to match her energy, her verve, always trying, always failing. A sea of sad little imitators. Puppets under her spell.
Am I her puppet too?
he wondered, hopelessly in lust with the busty pop singer. Then he felt the ziplock bag wedged in his shoe.
No. I have my own magic.
Surreptitiously, he reached down.
Maybe a reason why all the doors are closed
So you could open one that leads you to the perfect road
The first skittle missed. He hadn't reckoned on how slippery it would be.
Like a lightning bolt your heart will glow
The next one would have hit her--but a brat bodyslammed into him, sending his aim wide. He snarled and spun, fists up, but they'd already disappeared into the crowd.
And when it's time you'll know
The third struck Katy dead on.
The skittle flew from his hand, described a swift red parabola across the stage, and slapped into her thick left thigh. For an instant, he saw a spot of wetness illuminated on her leg, then the glaring stage lights dried his cum into her skin like lotion. He allowed himself a smile.
Cause, baby, you're a...
She jerked to a halt.
Her sharp-winged eyes went blank beneath the lines of black kohl. They became glasslike, dead orbs.
She stopped singing. And moving. She stood like a mannequin, missing cue after cue. Her backup dancers stared in confusion. The glare of the lights silhouetted her, making her a Rubenesque statue. Her voice still blasted inhumanly loud through the PA--like most pop singers, she performed to a pre-recorded backing track--but her lips remained tightly closed.
Soon, the cheers were punctuated by ripples. Murmurs. Screams of alarm.
"What's happening?"
"Is she okay?"
"Oh my God, she's having a stroke!"
But he just smiled. Wider and wider, the smile twisted apart his skin, like a rotten apple splitting. The spell had worked.
Katy's death-dull eyes drifted down onto the crowd, settled onto him, and flew wide open. She opened her mouth, and screamed. It was piercing. Inhuman. Demonic. like ice riven through the center of his head. Like a deranged flock of Stymphalian birds, soaring out of chancre-ravaged lungs to claw at his eyes. Her lavalier mic picked up the scream, and amplified it to a deafening hundred and twenty decibels through the PA.
With her shrieks echoing across the amphitheater's vastness, Katy sprinted for the edge of the stage, directly to where he stood. Her booted foot hit the edge of the barricade, and she vaulted over it, diving down on him.
As Katy plummeted, her overfed left breast spilled out of the latex prison; pale flesh rippling in the wind. He was transfixed by the surreal sight of Katy Perry's erect nipple rushinig toward his face, like the headlight of a speeding train...closer and closer...
She crashed down like a thunderbolt, her body twisting and folding around his at the point of impact. Her gorgeous long thighs looped around his neck, sending him hurtling to the ground. He heard screams. He thought it was the crowd. Then he felt dirt enter his mouth, and realized the screams were his.
I guess I was just part of the crowd...
Katy's leglock choked out his brain. The thoughts turned red, then turned black, then turned off.
* * *
"...He's waking up."
He returned to his body, blinking at details blurring into view. They seemed like icebergs bobbing uncertainly through the dark waters of unconsciousness.
He lay in a hospital bed. A man in a white lab coat--a doctor?--stood at the foot of the bed, alongside another man in a black suit. His confused, oxygen-starved brain interpreted them as a human yin and yang symbol. Antithetic mirrors of each other.
"Anthony?" The one in white leaned forward, peering quizzically into his eyes. "Can you hear us?"
"Yeah..." he groggily sat up in bed, feeling his strength return. "I think so."
The man in black stepped forward, hands folded contritely.
"You were involved in a...terrible accident at the Dublin show tonight. On behalf of Direct Management--and Miss Katherine Hudson--we extend our sincerest and deepest apologies."
He felt embarassed. He wasn't hurt
that
badly. In fact, he didn't think he was hurt at all. A little punch-drunk, but he'd had worse hangovers. He held up his hands.
"Hey, look, no big deal. I'm alive. I'm okay. I just passed out for a second."
"In that case," a sallow smile effaced the man's parched-leather face. "We need to discuss your...compensation for this."
