Sublibidorine    

    Middle aged and forlorn, a liver damaged, voluntarily mind washed counter-jingoist implored his instructress to proceed. Constumed in the flesh of a red caftan and infra-red undergarments, to graft at the isles of the dungeon. They licked their lips in preparation.

    A former Lepton microscope jockey, smothered in the intimate bonds of a soot black dinner jacket, ebony and benzoazurine jersey, he couldn't help but maintain a fossilized poise, intent on seducing her in the submarine after the tourists had dwindled.

    Flintworker by birth, her father preferred such fare as sawfish and mineral freestone tainted tulip bulbs. Courting this deceptive tart, he couldn't help but admit his loathing for sawfish, and promised to steal a topaz in her honor. She challenged him to determine as to whether the water clock or the atomic clock would be suitable for timing their sexual forays, and reflected:

    "Put the alkyd paint in my snuffbox. I'll remove my solferino overshirt, and my sulfur black blouse, only if you can prove to me that you love my thighs more than exasperating around that ridiculous golf course, flirting with pneumatic wind storm, subterranean demons of yore..."

    "Was Astragalus built of bismuth and thulium?", he replied.

    Once, a mother to have been esteemed, disguising her disfigured abdomen in a carminette frock, chrome waterproof ionized capsule in her garage, she lured him through the wrapper...

    "Is peptone built of methanol? Did your drill plow incorporate the coffee table in your latest, throbbing, crazed rampage?" She whispered.

    The dame coifed on the peach chezlounge, but suddenly turned to flirt with a young buoy tender from down the tube, having opted for the submarine tour in lieu of his usual afternoon virtual blissfield generator journey, offering thimble cocktails of Venice sea water upon his approach, as a ruse to extract her pleasures.

    The fellow was bedecked in an oxide green and aniline black gorget, with a white lead lined pallium frizzed frock. Appearing, her succulent angel to his hallucinating organ of notion, the buoy tender's lust peaked, but he willed himself not verbally to wander the oblivion musk factory road of fear, as on previous encounters, biting his lip and bleeding, red rivulets forming, occluded veins in his neck collapsing; he stood fast.

    She changed into her crimson wrapper, coral, silken translucent briefs, tilted her head to one side and closed her eyes at the cusp of the welded steel verandah.

    "This dame is fire", the buoy tender thought, but realized that there was no predicting the biological outcome of farming her fields, as she had devolved by cranial evacuation, and was given to serve her loins up on a platter to all fleeting suitors...

    "Had her former progenitors been a school of reefer surgeons? No rational motives could be derived", He thought, gazing listlessly at the counter-jingoist former jockey.

    Wielding a spasm inducing muscular skeletal ray gun, another rodent like zealot, enwrapped in a chrome oxide cloak, who brandied a cigarette case loaded with green tea leaves of bliss, attended the woman in heat. But he unwittingly jeopardized the entire prospective love linkage by his mere presence.

    He was a black market lexicographer from a long line of wandering brain stem healers (evacuating at The Event, tantamount to terrorist mind bombing, in an adjacent oyster bar nation). The enemy anti-trust ogres had exacted their dangling toll. Darting around his sullen world in a surplus zeppelin, he somehow managed to deflect inquiries from the Secret Tongues through bribery.

    Turning a sympathetic gaze to his would be consorts, the lexicographer, with his sordid vocabulary of elicit substances was mindful that to intervene through gray matter transpermutation, to plant his seed so easily and fruitlessly, would be far from pleasuring, as would be an all out war against the fundamentalist mind reapers themselves.

    He crept to the nearest transport coil and hummed the official subtext of righteousness, having finally resolved, upon seeing such helpless, sex crazed, writhing rails of loathsome flesh without faculty of reason, to commence full frontal assault on the infrastructure of the Architects...

    One adult (exploding beside a kerosene drenched mattress) had already been filleted by this maniacal institution, for no other reason than the fact that the woman's husband had been a ventilation engineer. And the perpetrator, with a history of anachronistic zealotry, had been experiencing a reaction to mold spores, sinuses principally inflamed and the impetus of a series of mind blowing migraine headaches: Manipulated facilely by Guild operatives.

    Randomized particulate toxins loomed on the horizon, under tufted raven skies. The original suitor, former counter-jingoist though he was, decided to attempt a direct marketing approach, offering ever potent illicit potions to the sumptuous girl. He, who, until that twinkling, in the minds of the other suitors, had been a mere inviting agent of garbage deflection and redirection to subterranean sumps, was suddenly understood as sorcerer.

    Chameleon of fashion, the writhing woman was now changing her garments in a blur, tracing the evolution of this evolving frenetic encounter, trying to decide on a seductive strategy. She consulted the latest buzz on her jaw receiver, and realized that this microscoper looked familiar, quite similar in fact to a man currently listed as wanted for fashion violations and subject to immediate deportation without hallucinatory ration.

    She would have refused him regardless, as her double-clone had allegedly shot herself in the head with a linear accelerating crystal nail gun, which nae wrought death but only laughable spurts of yellow goo from her ever vigilant automatic assassin protection head gear, after encountering this, one in the same, former Lepton micro jockey, loin melder, who chided her for having been the recipient of only a fourth of her biological host's frontal lobe.

    Sensing rejection, he melted her transparent rain coat with a sulfuric acid spitting machine gun, and for all appearances, not caring a wit.

    Even the Lexicographer, agent of zealotous ciphering was appalled at the sight, having consulted the micro-chip world events recorder in his nostril before deciding to woo the matriarch in estrus, and in the midst of emotional contractions, he shuddered, as she was now wrapped in an opaque, quick drying cement which had originally been applied by the counter-jingoist who sensing that the Lexicographer's pleasure inducing substances might prove irresistibly alluring, had thus attempted to deflect such seminal efforts as directed to the sallow skinned female, cementing his own fleeting relationship in more literal fashion.

    Mutate blooms unfolded fate inevitable, the ritual gathering became elevated to yet higher valences by the sudden appearance of an off duty plasma welder, wielding a padded rammer, rubber carving knife, and foam pickax. Seeking yet another lass after knocking up others thrice within microns of his testicles bulging, having recently injected accelerator meds into his earlobes, and ready to explode with genetic messengers en mass once again.

    So driven by sheer primal madness, more ruthless and oblivious than the others, even the black market wordsmith, and wearing a peacock blue peignoir, mallow pink zipper boots, and imitation burning paper jacket, he pulverized the other men momentarily, with thought projected ether stint webbing. But something strange befell him.

    He had been suffering transient consciousness interspersed with flashbacks of when he'd been demoralized in the kitchen of a public surrogate motherette, having spoiled his last synthesized meal of lard-sugar-whipped-cream-cookie-dough pie, two clods of Oklahoma dirt having materialized in the food synthesizer instead, as a result of his own meddlings, having attempted to sculpt a perfectly functioning food synthesizer with broad strokes of his plasma welding gear, intended for magneto-hover pod chassis manufacture.

    Such unauthorized dribblings from the end of his plasma gun were intended to impress the Overlords of Stretch of his aptitude for a new trade: Household and appliance demolition. But having witnessed this a-moral transgression, he was ejected from the Order of Tongues, no alliance to The Guild, and was now on the loose...

    He had never been happier than the time he stumbled into the domestic crystalonics lab and sub-harmonic field generator sub-station, attended by unclothed female adolescent nymphs, one of whom was the daughter of his time minister's temp-wife, having just been fired from her ready-feel lecture circuit attendee escort job. The young ecclesiastical wife had decided to become an artist, attending finger painting classes out on the floating barge museums of Metafrisco, next to the submarine sex den district, but ended up spending multiple early mornings with the plasma welder instead, introducing him to the delights of food synthesizer program scrambling, an illegal operation involving the genesis of myriad new Epicurean ministries; clandestinely derived, saliva eliciting wonders to be employed as pleasure wads and then subsequently devoured.

    "The feature of that mutule was concrete art." She had said.

    A pier posted Thought Officer (who was known for attacking his pet ant colonies at picnics with a can of gasoline and a butane lighter), who just happened to witness passing by the now critical mass of quivering cortexes through their mandatory transparent skull caps, which served to reveal lobotomized neural remains of their once rational human life support systems, deemed dangerous to the state, proclaimed:

    "One violet toll booth per ant! No oil gauges are of a higher form when it comes to blowing engine freneticism! Stop this address or I'll jump in the corrosive poison of the Atlantic crust!"

    He relocated kunzite and valuable marl. But the feminine aura, was too intense, even for the ant herder, the temptress having shed her previous skin, now liveried in an oxide purple tea gown, and swaying to the biddings of an entire band of mesmerized proboscis wielding zealots, enshrouded herself in auto-erotic haste at the mouth of an open hatch.

    "Closing hell from the architects, peeving around the antechamber and flaunting alternating current scintillators after the last nuclear war!", he screamed.

    The knowing mock maladroit armor suited ant herder, dashed in an impossible direction, through a safety vortex and beyond the ends of time present, and was diffused to a polluted putrid and hardened heavy porridge, inseminating the protoplasmic vestiges of the Dawn Time.

    With disdain for the likes of ant connoisseurs, attentive to his own loins, the buoy tender blurted: "Involve it! Will she row to the landing strip in that jumper? Club lounge chair, bloom cork and horn beam! Will my compatriots jaunt to the liner in one pung? Or shall I wield particle razor, thus slicing them into unfathomable ribbons, and having this sultry, saucy, organic and enticing dish, all to myself?"

    Another addict (damaged in the Flying Saucer Ranch Landing Zone Maniacs Rebellion) frizzed along, approaching the hedonistic troupe, having viewed the ongoing psycho-drama on his spy implant, via remote controlled mechanical mosquito with holographic visual transducers.

    "Outlived at the center!" He shrieked.

    The architects guild alarm went off (crowning at one annex of their virtual space) as the criminal male and female organs exploded in a subjective wash of blinding sensation. The plasma welder's backbone was twisted, then snapped!

    Within the guild chambers, dangerous parallel empathies shot through their nervous systems like roaches being born in a hot oven: "Will yet another, this most recent happenchance addict kill time with mumble the peg and commit? Or should it that we choose to intervene, crack open the hull of the submarine and pose as harmless noodles, obliterating their bodies with flaming gin?"

    "Melt the boron in the open hearth furnace. Mutter Oraon!" The woman moaned.

    "Is this view conceptual art and poptical art?" The terrorist mumbled.

    "How is your fantasm flexing range like a cardiograph?" She squealed.

    The butler consummated with the king on the architect's guild board room table. They disbanded the Secret Tongues, the Overlords of Stretch, and de-activated all spy systems through a series of supplanted network virus attack lattices, now unleashed.

    "That arbitrator...", the terrorist pleaded.

    Falling on clumps of broken shards of tubular glass thermionics, having popped out of vandalized maritime communication hut apparatus in the fray, and bloodying the soles of their abvirgin feet, they were now subject to horrifyingly invisible eddy currents of the faulty slinking war pod's archaic atomic pile secondary steam kicked dynamos.

    "Liberate my me..." The writhing woman uttered, then disappeared.

    At the oxbow lake, a party of solemn former architects elegized a puched rat.

    "Is tent pegging fun? Which clock was wrong? The alarm clock or the telltale?", they chanted.

    Fragments of their board room table were sent floating out to the middle of the mercurical reservoir and they prayed.

    An appointed assassin torpedo boat, camouflaged as a submarine, and piloted by a pin shaped robot, launched a particularly lithe and nasty projectile at the sex den submarine, then after vaporization of the infidels, took it's place next along the dock, confusing tourists, as the decoy attack vessel had a rubber hull that could not be penetrated by flesh.

   

    Epilog:

    Most inhabitants of the Many Worlds, spun, balling up in the fetal position, viewing from their Messianic wombs, voted with their tongue switches; they had seen enough.

    "Will another executive committee of crowned dendrite rascals, shredding these bolo impostors in their ridiculous pallor ever accumulate? What sort of bliss or rationale have they to muster, beyond lilac nose pickers and grooved windjammers and dado planes?", the synthetic omniscient president piped, it's meaningless head gestures sifting into the myriad unborn minds through unseen thought grid in the remaining eternal ether.

    While the submarine had been atomized, it could be said that the nymphomaniacals had not necessarily lost yet another election in the senate. There was certain to transpire, the de-materialization of countless additional leagues of Simian sinners, though not one of the embryonic tumblers had yet feigned interest.

    The rest of the universe was not to wait, so God laughed and urinated on the clouds again, sending all his many creatures fleeing, scuttling under rocks and parchment frocks.

Copyright 2005 Schuyler Hupp All Rights Reserved

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