Missive From ‘Merica: In The End…

Here we are then, Dear Reader, on the fifth and final stretch of Cade’s bloody, messy missive…

my favourite

*What, just this post or the whole missive, Clicky?*


*Ha! Yeah, cooked Apollyon-style…*

always sufficient flamethrower

… And if you’ve not had a chance to read parts one, two, three or four yet, may we suggest you go have a look at them before attempting number five…


*I don’t know, Clicky, sum people like to start at the end…*

smoke gnos


Today is now Monday the 17th of September 2018, and as soon as I woke this morning, I started thinking about how to create an atom of Gold (Au) using only three particles – one Proton, one Neutron, and one Electron.

So what I immediately starting thinking about was speed, which got me to thinking about light traveling as both wave and particle, I got to thinking about Neutrinos/Tachyons, The Particle Zoo, double-slit, gold-leaf, then started bouncing around through time a little bit to see if I could make 79 protons, 79 electrons and 118 neutrons and single atom using only 1 electron/proton/neutron.

I could.

I started thinking about the classic depictions of atoms, some of the newer models including some of the tinkering done with computing and text and the like, then added t(pfp)* to think about where and when a particle would need to be in order to appear to be in anywhere from 79 to 118 places at the same time, PLUS, all of the places that particle DIDN’T need to be in order to be where it needed to be.

In order to do THAT, I had to think about what creates mass in the first place, and I initially came up with (s*s) = m. Using the (Tachyon¹+Neutrino²(1))³ model, where two instances of the same particle are simultaneously moving at opposite/opposing speeds in the same place at the same time AND/OR at different places at different times, I got to thinking about The Big Bang, and how it may not have been the “explosion” that we think it was.

*t(pfp) = time¹ * ((past + future + present) = times) = time.

t¹ * t ³ = Tⁿ or (T∞)

  All times are infinite.

All angles are infinite.

  All speeds are infinite.

All distances are infinite, including the infinitely finite.

Observer, context, time = ∞ = -1 + 0 + 1 = ∞

Just making some mental notes 🙂
^George Benson: Give Me the Night (Official Video Remastered) HQ^

Anyway, I got to thinking about the dynamics that make it possible for matter to have mass, which got me to thinking about the dynamics that make it possible for matter to have no mass, and I wound up at a point that was ridiculously small, which was creating something ridiculously large, and I was bouncing back and forth in the space between. That got me to thinking about…energy.

Energy in the form of sound and light.
^Devo-Jerkin’ Back ‘n’ Forth (Highest Quality-Correct Speed)^

Stirring the pot…WWeeeeOOOOh…hOOOOeeeeeWW…top eht gnirritS

Meh, I’m gonna go work on some animated gifs to put all this shit in motion like I see it in my head, then I’ll post it on my own fucking blog instead of wearing poor Roob out.

😉 ❤

SAY!!! Did you know it’s been 33+ years since “We Are The World”?

Welp, now you know.

Just keep in mind, that if you were young when that song was recorded? Anyone born around the time that song was recorded is likely older now, than you were then. Even if you weren’t considered “young” then, you were certainly younger then, than now.

Just sayin'.
^USA for Africa – We are the World^

cYa | cFa

^Saint Behind The Glass – Los Lobos^



*Um, not quite, Clicky…*


missive ending

*Well, you heard what he said, Clicky. Picture…*

weddings one floor down

Have a Song, Dear Reader… ❤


Missive From ‘Merica: Pen Ultimate…


*Hmm, that’s more of a pencil than a pen, Clicky…*

aziz light mark

Continuing on from Part 3 of Cade’s latest missive, Dear Reader, we arrive at the penultimate post, and first glimpse of SoPi-L. Wait for it…


This is heavy.

Overview – Heavy periods – NHS – UK

So what’s all this business about heavy blood and/or gravity, mass and motion affecting menstrual cycles? Welp, it’s been over two weeks since I wrote on this piece of shit, so let’s do some numbers, and let’s assume that there are 2,000,000,000 women on the planet who are capable of menstruation.

80ml x 2,000,000,000 = 160,000,000,000ml

160,000,000,000ml = 160,000,000 liters

160,000,000 liters = 42,267,528.3773 US Gallons

Now, it’s only been two weeks, so let’s us cut those numbers in half.

(no pun intended)

80,000,000 liters = 21,133,764.18865 US Gallons

21+ million gallons/80 million liters of blood has flowed from the no-no areas of women worldwide since I started pondering some thoughts about menstruation two weeks ago. I wonder what someone would be willing to pay for a source that produced those kinds of numbers every two weeks?

Am I grandstanding? Bullshit numbers to reinforce bullshit concepts? Or am I tossing around rough figures in order to better understand scope. I mean really, who sits around calculating the amount of menstrual blood being shed. In fact, who sits around and calculates any type(s) of blood being shed, irrespective of why/how?

Catch my drift?

I just calculated digit by digit, and there are 473.176473 milliliters in a pint.

Don't believe me?

Go to Google, search for “473.176473” without the quotes, then look at the first result. Some numbers are contextually unique.

Fine-Structure Constant

I forget, therefore I…I…I…um, I am sometimes forgetful.

I think, therefore I am capable of incapability.

I think I am anyway.

Maybe you are a better judge of that kind of thing.

/me shrugs
^Penguin Cafe Orchestra – Perpetuum Mobile^

Let’s bring it home.

How much does human blood weigh?

1.04 grams per cc.

80,000,000 liters = 80,000,000,000 cc’s

80,000,000,000 cc’s x 1.04 grams = 83,200,000,000 grams

83,200,000,000 grams = 83,200,000kg

83,200,000kg = 183,424,602.14 pounds

Can you imagine what a tick that weighed 183,424,602.14 pounds would look like? Or a leech? A parasite that large would need a host like Godzilla to feed off of. You’d need a fucking herd of Godzillas. King Kong would be nothing more than a snack. Sorry, just brainstorming for context.

^Patrick Street – Music for a Found Harmonium^

I almost regret my not having any regrets…

^Bubbles – Bidibodi Bidibu [HQ]^
The Mad A Gas Star Effect.

Sunspot Solar Observatory will re-open this week

I mean, Madagascar Effect.

Pro-Tip: When doing any texting of any kind, if you always try and pretend that you are having a very difficult and/or uncomfortable conversation with someone that you really REALLY like and want to talk to, you aren’t as likely to get butt-hurt when you read something wrong, or there’s some other communication snafu/misunderstanding. This can have the added benefit of making any of the intentionally ugly stuff stand out like a sore thumb.

^Erik Satie – Once Upon A Time In Paris^

Has this thing gotten too long to introduce SoPi-L?

Welp, too fuckin' bad.

Meet SoPi-L



*’old your ‘orses, Clicky, we ain’t got to the end yet…*

fire fuelled

SoPi-L is explored in more depth, Dear Reader, in the fifth and final missive part, which can be seen HEAR… and have a Song 😉


Missive From ‘Merica: Middle Block…

middle block

*Eww gross, Clicky. You know sumtimes…*

Hot on the heels of Part 2, the third and middle part of Cade’s massive, messy missive is ready for your attention now, Dear Reader. Enjoy!


I watched a movie called “The 33” today. I didn’t like it. I think I was expecting to meet them, get to know both them and those involved in the event(s) a bit, and maybe even learn a little about the events themselves. That didn’t happen.

^My Blue Heaven ….Esquivel^

Prophet       Nomad       Hero       Artist

This is a concept that someone I know talks about now and then. Something to do with turning. I understand the concept, and may even understand some of the concepts, but what I have trouble with is the overlap and the missing bits. But a premise in a Doctor Who episode that we watched recently kinda touched on a concept regarding resonance(s) and timbre(s) within DNA/genetics that smacked of destiny and predestination. Meaning, there was an attachment made at some point, this attachment was at the genetic level, and any offspring will carry the resonance of that attachment, which in turn leaves markers/tunnels/channels for a third-party to exploit for their own purposes as these genes are passed from generation to generation.

Q: Ever heard of hydrogen peroxide?

A: !!!

I guess there is all kinds of craziness that can produce an orphan.

^Little Joe & The Latinaires ♫ La LLorona Loca^

So here’s what I did with the aforementioned concept in order to better illustrate my thinking on the subject(s) of overlaps and omissions…

prior ->

Prophet Nomad Hero Artist

Nomad Hero Artist Prophet

Hero Artist Prophet Nomad

Artist Prophet Nomad Hero

Prophet Nomad Hero Artist

post <-

I’m not necessarily thinking about “people who don’t make the cut” or survival of the fittest. I’m thinking more of what we chalk up as chance. I’m thinking more multi-threading and multi-capable, and I’m also thinking about properties that have similarities and/or multifariousness that must exist to create a singularity.

EX1: I would imagine that a Nomad is likely to need to possess many of the same attributes as a Hero. They simply arrive at adversity in different ways, and handle adversity using different methods.

EX2: An artist would likely need to possess attributes of both a Hero AND a Nomad. Artistry of any kind tends to require both solitude and daring.

With that in mind, what ultimately makes us who we are?

I dunno either.

I guess it largely depends on who you are trying to impress.

^Papas -Mr. Loco (Nacho Libre Soundtrack)^

So what if all the Prophets for a given generation, die? Someone is going to have to pick up that slack. Nomads might be a good first choice since Nomads and Prophets seem to have a mutual need for solitude.

But hang on a second…what is a Prophet anyway? And for that matter, what in the fuck is a Nomad? Is what a Nomad was then, the same as what a Nomad is now? I mean fuck, there’s a biker gang here in the US called The Nomads. Are they somehow more Nomadic than other biker gangs just because they’ve got a clever name? Are biker gangs more Nomadic now than they were then, or less?

Does that matter?

Biker gangs aside, how far does one have to wander in order to be considered qualified for the title of Nomad? Who makes that determination, and when? Why are they qualified to make such a determination? Tough answers, require tough questions.

^The Cinematic Orchestra – Arrival of The Birds & Transformation^

I don’t get this at all. Did the teacher learn a lesson and his students paid the price?

^UCF Professor Richard Quinn accuses class of cheating [Original]^
I don't get this either.
^Most Outrageous Government Board Meeting EVER!!!^
But then...
^Carpentersville President Sarto yells and walks off job^

In these four episodes of Doctor Who that we watched, there were a lot of concepts addressed somewhat, and these concepts were themed throughout the episodes. Meaning, they were paid at least a moderate amount of attention during the episodes…all except one…randomness. Keep in mind that I’ve never watched Doctor Who before, and this was the first time that I’d seen these episodes.

Randomness was mentioned briefly in one of the four episodes, then dismissed. As far as I can recall, it was never addressed again, and I watched rather intently for it to reappear…

it did not.

It was as if the entire cast of players were looking for a playbook to follow step-by-step, found one, then decided that explosives and firearms was the way to solve all of their problems. Um…if you find some ancient book, what’s the likelihood of the authors having access to explosives of any kind at the time of writing? What is our connection to ancient peoples at all? Do we even have any?

^Bubble gum-Mr. LoCo^

This is a problem with time-travel. You are going to have to get rid of any notions you have about privacy, which means you are going to have to dump any notions you have about pride, freedom, choice, truth, dishonesty, deception and a host of other ego-pumping concepts. A time traveler who has free range backwards, forwards and to, can find out anything and everything they want to know about you. They have all the time in the Universe to see where you started, where you ended up, and everything that happened between.

Q: What if the time-traveler is not immortal?

A: How can you prove someone is immortal?
AA: There is no way.
AAA: Immortality appears to be a walk that simultaneously has the properties of never having started, and also never stops.

Loopholes to immortality aside, how can you knowingly be dishonest to someone who already knows the truth? Welp, best I can figure, is stay the fuck away from truth, and just be yourself. Remember, we are talking about more than one perspective here, and fact is not truth. You can study the shit out of someone’s CV, fact check and verify the shit out of it, but that is no indicator as to the relationship that you will have with this person. This is a new relationship afterall, and this pairing is a new dynamic that has never existed before.

1 + 1 = 1

Is it obvious that I recently watched Nacho Libre?

^John Cameron – Half Forgotten Daydreams (1974)^


zorg knows

*Well yeah, butt you were there whilst we watched Nacho Libra, Clicky, remember?*

nacho libre high five

No time to stop now, Dear Reader, Part 4 – including the first appearance of SoPi-L – can be seen HEAR… And have a Song 😉


Missive From ‘Merica: After the Start…

Ruby smoke

*I know. Interesting stuff, Clicky…*

Dear Reader, if you’ve read the first part of Cade’s massive missive, then wait no longer to dive into the next enthralling bit…



Today is Sunday September 16 of 2018, and I’ve been sitting on this post since Thursday August 30 of 2018.

Ya rly.

I started with that shit about blood and twisting lines, and I’ve been pondering the mechanics of the micro and particulate as it pertains to a woman’s menstrual cycle for over two weeks now.

You think it unusual that a man would spend weeks considering a woman’s menstrual cycle? About how ergonomics and nutrition and lifestyle and the like affect a woman’s naughty bits with respect to time and gravity and motion and all kinds of other crazy factors?

Over the course of a lifetime, I wonder how much cotton and other fibrous material accumulates in a woman’s body, and how that individual woman’s body acclimates and/or handles this…stuff.

Filler(s)? Additives? Preservatives?

Sound crazy? Welp, if you put enough magnetic interference around a compass, eventually, the compass is going to have difficulty with finding its way and/or doing what it is designed to do.

EX: From a global perspective, do you think that people living in the northern hemisphere eating watermelon in January is unusual?

I think the circadian clock(s) are based on, and guided by, more than just/only a 24 hour cycle. I mean, how in the fuck did it get to 24 in the first place? What keeps it there? I’ve this sneaking suspicion that dark matter/energy plays a role.

^POGO – Jaaam^

It would appear that a “beedi” is a thin cigarette.


What other types of things can you think of that are thin, need to be thin, and it’s a good thing that they are thin?

Girl Scout Cookies-Thin Mints
Wheat Thins
Surface Tension
Vaginal Wet Mount
Death of Gloria Ramirez
Shut Down Everything
Slime Layer
Slime layer...Slayer...get it?

Baby, if you wanna mince words, you came to the right place. I’m a Juice Tiger™ that eats Weekly World News® newspapers and spoos out gallons of juicy linguistic goodness like it ain’t no thang.

(nod to SIMAAM)
^Religious Man ( I am I am )^

Quick thought…

Q: How does one get money out of The UN?

A: In UN Dough

Sorry for the lame pun/bad joke, but the UN Secretary General appeared on my radar yesterday, and I can’t help but wonder if this Brexit nonsense is more of a battle between The EU and The UN, and which side The UK is going to wind up on. Of course, there’s also the NATO angle(s), which is muddied somewhat by the Trump/Putin connection(s)…assuming there are any. But those will be severed when Trump goes to prison with Clinton.

^Smoke Fairies – Living With Ghosts^
tumblr_oraeeyclwd1rhhef8o2_540What is our preferred method of disposal?

Yeah dummy…for garbage, what is the preferred method of disposal for garbage?

A: Fire/Burning

In our conversations, RooBeeDoo mentions the spine quite a bit. Well, maybe not “quite a bit”, but she mentions it frequently enough that I notice. That said, she never elaborates, and any links that she provides tend to be vague, distant and/or unrelated to whatever we are discussing. Anyone who has spent any time around, erm, weirdos, will know that the number 33 has some cosmic/divine connotations and/or associations, and there are rumored to be 33 vertebrae in the human spine.

Let’s back up tho. When you fart, where does that gas come from? I think medicine will tell us that there are bacteria in our gut that eat what we eat, then make their own poop and farts that in turn become our poop and farts. But don’t we breathe? Doesn’t our skin breathe? Doesn’t our blood contain gas(es)? What does our body do with things that it just flat don’t know what to do with? Is it possible that our body might try to…burn it? More than that, do our bodies potentially possess the ability to do any such thing?

Spontaneous Combustion
Spontaneous Human Combustion
Autoignition Temperature
Roy Sullivan
Trouble just seems to follow some people.
^Greenskeepers – Money^

Let’s go for a record. I’ll explain later.

^La Llorona loca – Los Gliders.wmv^

Why are there all these calls and/or efforts to send everyone to prison? I see shitloads of tweets calling for the immediate arrest and imprisonment of all kinds of people, but especially public figures. Surely there has to be more options than just/only prison. Have you fucks not heard of riots? Lynchings? Mob justice? Vigilantism? Mass murder? Anarchy? Hitmen/assassins/murder for hire? Ritual killings? Surely there aren’t efforts to pollute “legitimacy” with unsound methods and actions…

are there?

That said, there sure seems to be a lot of fuckery via government(s), which means it originates via commerce.

General Data Protection Regulation


What is going on pre-ping?

What is going on post-pong?

^Eisenfunk – Pong^

Why am I asking so many fucking questions?

^Caetano Veloso (1969)- Irene^

HEY!!! I’ve been wondering how to do this. Now I know.

^How to Install Cyberlox^


Truth is we plebeians live under the thumb of delay, detainment and arrest…

all day, every day.

Get pulled over for any reason, and catch the wrong cop on the wrong day, and you could wind up on the business end of a taser for anything from drugs, to suspected terrorism, to pissing off some random stranger, to simply having your own bad day on the wrong fucking day. I mean, who in the FUCK is having a good day when you get pulled over, have some conflict, or are otherwise detained for some odd reason.

Like say...having long hair.

Has government forgotten customer service? Or is that “protect and serve” bullshit just a hyped up myth designed to protect a racket. If so, “the racket” is going to be…advancement, job security, and accolade. Afterall, the cream, rises. Curds are for turds, buttermilk is for babies, and plain milk is for pussies.

I have no idea what any of that means either.

Seems like it’s easier, and safer to just…stay indoors. Protect yourself…at all times…like a boxer might.

^Mucha Muchacha by Esquivel^


pulp fiction butch boxer

*/furrows brow… Is that from the same movie, Clicky?*

meat popsicle

Make yourself a cuppa tea and get ready to read the next part, Dear Reader, by clicking HEAR… And have a Song 😉


Missive From ‘Merica: In The Beginning…

Hello there, Dear Reader. I have received a rather long missive from Cade F.O.N. Apollyon, which I’ve split into 5 parts for ease of reading…


*Indeed, Clicky… /lights up…*

….Seventeen pages of missive is too much for just one post; however, I will post all 5 parts tonight, so you can read them in one go, as intended. Ready?




Does a woman’s blood, and the things in it, affect her menstrual cycle? I mean sure, women have their monthly business for a few days or whenever it’s convenient, at which point they likely need some additional iron so they don’t pass out every five minutes. But what about other stuff in the blood? How does that stuff in the blood affect the menstrual cycle, and how does it affect a lot of other shit that goes on down there on the girly bits? What about up top?

No…not the brains, the breasts. What’s going on with them boobs when your naughty bits are doing their monthly leak/pressure tests? Do the breasts swell? Do they get sore? Develop lumps and/or hard spots? Is it normal if they do none of those? I’m thinking displacement here. If a segment of tissue is needing some sweet sweet loving from some Iron(Fe), but there is something already occupying the space that Iron needs to occupy in order to facilitate the need, what kinds of thing happen within that region? Does the body work to displace whatever is preventing the Iron from getting to where it needs to be? But more than that, is the Iron itself now perceived as an intruder since it cannot get to where it needs to go and is taking up space that is needed for something else? I mean, we are talking transience here.

Oh btw…hi.

/me waves
^The Pixies – I Bleed^


How far will a straight line bend before it starts to twist and either:

A) collapse back in upon itself;

B) wander off on less predictable path;

C) break into particulate that makes random and unpredictable appearances/disappearances;

D) some or all of that depending on locale?

Prolly basic crap for a Geometrist to ponder. But there is/are considerations to ponder with respect to observer(s) and their own orientation. I mean, let’s take that image above, and shrink it down a bit. And see if that changes anything with respect to how we observe.

At some point, you are likely going to make a decision or two as to what the safe operating parameters and/or conditions are for that torque-wrench you are designing. But I got a question…

Q: What is safe about a torque-wrench?

A: Nothing.

I guess we’ll just have to take our chances, eh?

^Horde War March^

What happens after the reaction?

What led up to the action?

I mean, the guys who made this video prolly wouldn’t appreciate someone coming over to their house and climbing on the roof.

Wait…what’s that? You’ve not watched the video that follows yet? K…well…I have. Maybe if you watch it, you’ll have an inkling as to what I’m talking about.

Or not.
^escaping from police (south london crane climb)^


Ever had a rock in your shoe?

Something that prohibited the facilitation of the more or less natural movement and/or motion of a certain part of your body, and that prohibition kinda cascaded, and effected your entire being moving in the way that you want it to move? Welp, yesterday, the Amygdala appeared on my radar with respect to “response to more emotional types of stimulus”, and the reaction(s) and response(s) that happen under these circumstances.

Q: Does emotional response via what we see on-screen affect our being in ways that we might not consider or give any thought to?

A: ¿¿?

I’m thinking any screen. Not just only phones or computers or TVs or movie screens, but billboards, t-shirts, building designs, certain types of shoes, faces, a tree.

“Smartphone Zombies” appeared on my radar this morning.

I guess I’ll get back to writing.

^Transcending the limbic system response^


hes hot ruby

*He is that, Clicky…*

To continue reading Cade’s missive, Dear Reader, click HEAR… and have a Song 😉


Story Time: Sometimes A Door

😀 Hello there, Dear Reader. Welcome back for the third installment of Cade F.O.N. Apollyon’s short stories from the Underdog Anthology V. This little gem is called ‘Sometimes A Door’…

*True, the LoL is a shade of grey, Clicky, but Cade’s story is ‘Sometimes A Door’, not ‘Sometimes Dor A’…*

*Exactly! But, blimey, wot a shock…*



She had no idea where she was. Everything was missing. Her memory was not a blur, not fuzzy…gone. But how can it be gone? If she knew that something was previously there, and now is no longer there, how could it be gone? So weird, so strange. There was a succinct and immediate knowing of herself and all that she was, so why is everything so distant and vague? So strange that everything was so crisp and sharp. Everything was right there for the taking, yet she could not seem to grasp anything.

She surveyed her immediate surroundings. There was hardly any light or color. In fact, there was almost no color at all. Or at least, no colors that she could make out or discern as individual colors. And yet everything in these unfamiliar surroundings was as vivid as she had ever experienced. So much light.

As she continued to try and understand where she was and how she came to be there, she became aware of a process enveloping her that could only be described as a darkness that she could actually see.

She pondered the darkness as another odd thought suddenly crept into her head. Something clear that she could finally almost latch onto. Yet for some reason, once this thought had manifested itself clearly in her mind, she found herself unconsciously ducking her head; almost as if the process of manifesting clarity was forbidden here, and her doing so had somehow awoken some dormant response of self-preservation, both inwardly and outwardly within the very being of this unusual place. That in thinking of something specific, there was some need for her to dodge an as of yet unseen slap of retribution from some outside force, in response to the specificity of her thought.

Silence. A silence accompanied by a simultaneous and ironic call for her not to further disturb the existing silence of this place, and yet…

“Maybe it’s me?” she whispered aloud to herself. Upon hearing her own voice, she immediately thought, that was most likely the loudest, most discernible whisper ever uttered. “Maybe it was a good idea that I ducked,” she again whispered aloud, chuckling slightly. She was using the quietest voice she could think to muster under the circumstances of this unknown and unfamiliar place, but there was a resonance to her whispers that seemed anything but quiet.

She suddenly had the urge to giggle at the absurdity of it all and found herself smiling. “I can, and have thought thoughts like this before, but never quite in this detail. Never felt quite so safe in thinking about such preposterous things,” she pontificated aloud and bluntly. Gaining some courage, she continued, A loud and clear whisper, she thought to herself. Does that still qualify as a whisper? And, is it possible to scream a whisper? Her smile broadened as she continued to contemplate the mechanics of the concept of whispering, but did so in the certainty that any conclusions she might reach would likely not be applicable in this place. Wherever and whatever this place is. Yes, definitely not applicable here.

The growing urge to actually laugh aloud at these thoughts passed quickly as she began to wonder if she had actually said her thoughts aloud. The thought of “insanity” crept into her mind as this unfamiliar place, and the unknown reasons for her being within it, again took center stage in her thinking.

“I can’t talk to myself…and certainly not aloud.”

“Why not?” she immediately heard a voice from behind her say. “I’m betting you can do both, and perhaps even do both of those quite well,” the voice continued. “Both individually, separately, and sometimes even individually together, and maybe even both at the same time. Yep. I’d feel safe in betting you can indeed do both, and maybe even any and all of those things.”

The cold chill that should be creeping up her spine was mysteriously absent. But her natural instincts that she should be feeling, something, was not. It made her question her earlier unconscious instinct to duck.

Is there something…wrong with me? she thought to herself.

“People think that all the time,” the voice said.

“Did I say that aloud? Am I speaking aloud again?” Her heart sank. It occurred to her that she should be terrified at the thought of saying something aloud that she knew others could hear, and especially if she did not want to say it nor someone else to hear it.

“Talking aloud, to yourself, when you are alone, is something only the insane do. So say the sane,” asserted the voice. The timbre of the unseen voice trailed at the end thought as if they somehow both agreed and disagreed with all potentialities under all circumstances. And yet, the best that she could muster in response to the unseen voice’s assertion was something very contrary sounding to her previous more balanced lines of thinking on the subject.

“The sane…are they wrong?” she said without thinking further.

“The insane sure seem to think so,” replied the voice with a knowing that seemed to affirm her previous thought as to who knows what and when. But her contrary thinking was quickly countermanded by her needing side. Her needing side needed to know, and it quickly demanded an answer. “But which is right?” she asked.

“First you want to know which is ‘wrong’. And then, if ‘wrong’ don’t work, you trundle straight for ‘right’ to see if you can figure that one out. Then you’ll somehow use that understanding of ‘right’ to further apply to ‘wrong’ in order to see if you can figure ‘wrong’ out from ‘right’. It can, and does, get messy at times.” The voice spoke as if they were playing a game of intellectual Ping Pong with themselves, with her as more of a player suddenly turned spectator. “Some things never change,” the voice added but trailed; almost as if the last part of the thought were something of a more a contemplative footnote of a thought for the voice to get back to at a later time, and not necessarily anything directed at her. However, there was a marked feeling nested within this strange dialogue, that somehow, every word and every thought was meant for her. She was back in the game.

“You seem a bit out of sorts,” the voice continued. “Anything else I might be able to help you with outside of the merits of right and wrong as it, perhaps, under certain circumstances, occasionally may pertain to the concept of sanity from the viewpoint and/or viewpoints of, and between, complete strangers?”

The voice had somehow managed the menagerie of mangled words without any sign of an audible breath, and ended with a markedly high note that under any other circumstances would likely be interpreted as contempt. But she did not interpret the thought nor it’s inflections and inferences that way, and yet, she could only imagine the blank look that must now occupy her face. She felt like someone had just read an entire book to her, in a single sentence, on a single breath. But the urge to explode into laughter was overwhelming. This is nuts. Completely insane!

Her thoughts turned to the implied absurdity of suddenly discussing these abstract and somewhat mired intermingling concepts with someone she did not know, nor could she even see. I wouldn’t even consider opening up like this to someone I know intimately. So why am I? Why now? Why here? It was almost impossible to fathom. She had no idea how to respond, or even if she should respond, and continued to wrestle with her desire to laugh. The urge to say something, anything, to stifle her desire to laugh was becoming almost unbearable.

The voice interrupted her thoughts, “By the way…I don’t work here. I mean…I used to work here, but no longer. I remember my way around quite well though, and I just so happened to be passing through. So perhaps, if you would like, I may be able to assist you in some way,” said the voice in a rather unusual tone.

He knows something. Knows this place. Hell, he may know everything about this place, and it’s almost as if he knows me. But how can that be? I’ve never been here before, and am not even sure where here is. Where the hell am I? His voice is familiar, but I’m quite sure that I don’t know his voice, so I cannot possibly know him. Perhaps that is our connection. This is new to me, but not him. But that would make it new for both of us…wouldn’t it?

She garnered a bit of courage nestled within her growing frustration at the absurdity of this chaotic calm, and managed to manifest a single, independent thought. But the first thought was quickly muddied by a second, surely to be followed in short order by a third. As she felt her mind hopelessly slipping away from the steadfastness of her original premise, she found herself angrily blurting the first thought as best she could before it was lost. “WHERE AM I?!?!?”

She waited for the echo that was sure to follow a scream like that within a place as cavernous as this, but her returning voice never came. Instead, she felt a pause in her strange surroundings, along with an accompanying pause and a sense of hesitation in the voice’s purpose and direction. At the same time, it was almost as if the entirety of the makeup of these unknown surroundings had completely stopped, and then, instantaneously changed directions in response to her frustrated outburst. Almost as if all of existence was now suddenly running in reverse while somehow still maintaining it’s original course.

“You know where you’ve been, but not where you are. And you also know who and what you are, but nothing…um…’specific’, currently comes to mind under all of those pretexts. Am I close on my estimations?”

“Yes,” she responded almost obediently without the slightest air of hesitation.

“So, that means that the real questions are?” the voice paused with a patient and encouraging, but expectant rhythm.

“What am I doing here?” she blurted while trying to mask her frustration in vain.

“That’s one of two, which usually appear in no particular order, and you are free to continue at your leisure under no pressure whatsoever,” replied the voice with a sarcastic but gentle and leading tone.

“Where am I going?” she said anxiously, and suddenly finding herself hoping that her second question was the correct one.

“Correct,” said the voice.

“How did you know those would be the two questions I asked?” She immediately caught herself thinking of how she had just asked yet a third question before even getting an answer to the first two. This gave her pause to wonder about the answer that was actually given, but the voice again interrupted her thoughts.

“Like I said, I used to work here,” the voice said almost singing the words. “Those two questions were fairly common. Sometimes almost like clockwork.”

She suddenly became angry, but attempted to maintain her composure while a barrage of questions sprung in defense of her mind. Did you ever answer them? Like…did you actually give direct, comprehensible, understandable and satisfactory answers? Do you even know these answers?!?!? Or do you only have an intimate knowledge of the specific questions themselves? The mock-screaming in her head suddenly ceased. She wondered if she could keep track of all the questions she had just been inspired to ask. As the internal recollection and enumeration of her ‘questions to ask’ began, she thought to herself, now all that remains is garnering the courage to actually ask them while maintaining some semblance of decorum.

“I might just know someone who has some answers,” the voice interrupted. “Fair enough?”

No sooner had the voice said these words, that a figure began to appear out of the nothingness in front of her. Smaller, as if distant, and growing larger as he approached, without actually covering any measurable or definable distance. Almost like the summoning of an apparition by a terrible side-show conjurer one would find at a traveling carnival. But as she attempted to adjust her focus and maintain her bearings it became obvious that this was no illusion. As she continued her study of what was happening and how, it also became apparent that this man’s presence was simultaneously creating the light and darkness that was surrounding both him and the entirety of this place. She felt her anger begin to melt away, and she tried in almost desperation to forget about the barrage of questions she had only just contemplated firing in this man’s direction.

He was stocky with no particular distinctions as to his being either muscular nor fat, neither short nor tall – just stocky. Distinctly indistinct was the best description that she could quickly muster upon his sudden and yet ever increasing appearance. He had short-ish red hair that was extremely curly, but not necessarily fuzzy or frayed. Almost like that of a well-kept wig that a circus clown might wear, except the hair was quite long for a clown wig; almost to his shoulders. Does shoulder-length hair still qualify as…short-ish? She suddenly felt a bit of guilt and shame for making the “clown-hair wig” distinction in her observations, but her thoughts quickly changed direction when she noticed his attire.

A long white-ish grey robe with both black and white sashes around the waist. The actual lengths and proportions of the robe and sashes were hidden in, and accentuated by the fact that he was carrying his hands behind his back, and he was therefore leaning slightly forward as he walked. She caught the sudden glint of a third sash tied in and almost braided through the other two sashes around his waist. Is that yellow? Or gold? She straightened her posture as he came ever closer.

Walking with a slight shuffling in his manner, he continued his somewhat determined but slow approach in her direction – steady and non-threatening. This left little doubt that his destination was certain, but that only he knew what and where his ultimate destination lay. His head was bowed, yet there was still a raised nature to his head. Almost as if he were contemplating something heavy or dark….and also like his head was simultaneously submitting to, and fighting against both its own and some other unseen weights. She found this detail odd considering the smile in this man’s voice; there was nothing even remotely strained about it. It was unusual and evasive perhaps, but she didn’t recollect any sign of stress nor strain in their brief exchanges. She noted that this made his physical appearance seem even more odd when mixed in and among the overwhelming brightness of this dark place.

Odd that she hadn’t really noticed the same smile on his face. Have I even seen his face? She made a mental note to seek out his face, but noted to do so without appearing to stare or evaluate.

As she wondered to herself as to the particulars of his face and how best to look at it, and almost as if on cue, he looked up at her briefly via the unusual positioning of his bowed head, and there it was. The smile reflected in his voice was clearly visible and unmistakable via his eyes. She could detect the smile in his mouth and facial expression as well. But unlike the smile of the voice and eyes, there was something else hidden behind it and the other contours of his face. If it were strain that she was detecting, it certainly was not reflected elsewhere in the man’s being. Although not particularly muscular nor brawny, his appearance were as though there were no weight he could not lift. She caught herself suddenly wanting to smile, noticed that she was staring, and quickly looked away in shame.

After what seemed like an extremely long walk for both of them, and an even longer and certainly more elaborate observation period of her watching him walk, he finally came to a stop only slightly in front of her, as she continued her almost vain attempts to look anywhere but directly at him. She could almost feel the pulse of his breathing as he stood otherwise motionless in front of her, but she kept her head turned so as to see him only indirectly. He had seemed so massive and ever larger-looming previously as the distance closed between them.

Yet she now noticed that he was considerably shorter than she, and she now dreaded looking directly at him for fear of giving the appearance of looking down her nose at him.

As she continued to wonder what to do at this point, she could feel his eyes upon her. Waiting. But she could also sense that he was not visually evaluating her in the same way that she had evaluated him as he approached her location. Where is my location, current or otherwise? she wondered to herself.

She surmised there was no internal knowing to be had in her query, and turned her head in his direction as if to seek the answer elsewhere. As soon as their eyes met, the man said, “I dreamed of you.”

Her head sagged suddenly in defeat, and she immediately burst into tears as the weight of his words somehow sunk in. But almost as soon as the tears started, she quickly began to question her own motivation in the sudden outpouring. I know this, she thought to herself as she continued to sob. I don’t know this at all, she countermanded her own previous thought.

No more answers to seek boomed in her mind via some unknown voice emanating from some unknown source in her being. The chill that was absent earlier made it’s presence and intentions known. But its desire to creep through her being was quickly quashed by the manifesting of a single thought that resonated distinctly with and in her own voice. Am I…

“Aw now, let’s not have too much of that,” the man said with a fatherly concern that seemed to lift the weight of the questions manifested in her mind by his previous cryptic yet weighty statement.

“I’m sorry. I’ve no idea what you mean by that, but somehow I also do know for some reason. I don’t know,” she said, also beginning again to wipe fresh tears from her own eyes. “I’m so lost.”

“Well…let’s see if we can remedy that, and maybe even get some of those tears dried up in the process. Maybe even both at the same time. Nudge nudge, wink wink.”

She saw him neither move his arms to nudge her, nor move his eyes from their fixed gaze even slightly, but she knew that he had somehow done both and all. As it occurred to her to actually ask the man if he had done either, she looked up to see him looking into her eyes and smiling. She suddenly recalled his opening words as to her own abilities to do certain things at the same time. She let out a slight chuckle and smiled at the thought. “Maybe…but no promises.” She continued to dab at her tears as she attempted to straighten her posture and regain her composure.

“No…promises,” he purposefully chopped his words, simultaneously asking and answering before continuing, “No promises sounds fair enough.” He smiled at her again, then continued, almost interrupting himself, “Listen…I was just heading down this way if you care to tag along. But if you’ve another destination in mind, I’d be happy to accompany you wherever you prefer to trod,” he said with a jovial spring in his voice.

“Trod?” she chuckled slightly as she said it aloud. “I’m sorry…but that’s a word you simply don’t hear everyday.” She continued to chuckle and attempted to further collect herself, but felt the need to say it again, “Trod,” she chuckled again. “That’s funny.”

“Well, whenever it is that we get to wherever it is that we are going, hopefully, it’ll still be both pertinent and applicable in it’s humor. Maybe it’ll be at least as amusing to both of us then as it is now.” As he finished speaking, he shot her a wink.

“Let’s hope so,” she said while beaming a smile that she could not restrain in response to the wink. She couldn’t help it. She wanted to laugh again, as she pondered the merits of suddenly having a dictionary handy so that she could look up the word ‘trod’ and all it’s tenses and applications. But the thought of stumbling through a dictionary in this man’s presence, simply to have a better understanding of his odd vernacular made the situation just that much more comical. She wanted to know more. She had to know more. Such as, where would I even begin to look for a dictionary at this point, she wondered to herself as she stifled the urge to again chuckle.

“Let’s us trod down this way,” he said.

She let out a giggle. “OK…” she paused, “let’s us trod. After you.”

“After you, she says. I guess I’m leading the way,” he mumbled aloud in a faux-vibrato that was obviously meant to be humorous. At least, that’s what it sounded like and what she was familiar with. A sarcastic yet comforting tone, nested within a certain kind of knowing.

I guess he’s trying to keep the conversation light, she rationalized to herself.

The unusual man again started walking in the same short, shuffling steps as before. As he passed her, she caught herself looking at him and studying his movements more than the man himself. She caught herself staring and again began to feel a tad shameful for doing so. She decided it was best to follow as politely as she could, and began imagining what the proper way to follow someone ‘politely’ would actually be.

As she began walking, she noticed something odd about his hands and arms, and the way that they were placed behind his back. Are his hands tied? Or is he carrying something on his back? Or…both? It was too dark to tell, but the thoughts of either or any of those made her shudder, and she felt herself shake a bit almost with a chill within her own being.

Odd it being so dark surrounding this man. He himself was almost…glowing.

They continued to walk, but she quickened her pace to catch up so that she could walk beside him instead of behind. Once caught up, she slowed and turned her head to look at his feet to better match his pace. She couldn’t actually see his feet, but she was able to quickly match his pace and cadence.

“OK if I walk with, instead of behind?” she asked, smiling confidently as she tried to match his steps.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

His face, from the side, appeared to her to be relaxing a bit as he answered her question.

“Say. Do you like movies?” he suddenly asked; almost as if to interrupt an unspoken conversation between them.

“Yes. Very much,” she replied.

“Have you ever seen that movie that came out a few years back, that was a kind of spoof of the Frankenstein book and movies?”

“Young Frankenstein?” she suggested brightly.

“That’s the one. I love that movie, but never can recall its name for some reason.”

“Oh I love that movie too,” she agreed. “One of my favorites.”

“There’s a part in that movie…” His voice trailed in the vast expanse of nothingness as they disappeared together into the darkness.


We hope you enjoyed that, Dear Reader, as well as ‘Hee Haw Hockey‘ and ‘Pour, Know… Poor, No‘. Fingers crossed the Okie Devil of Text US will pen some new tales for Underdog Anthology VI, the Halloween edition

*Now THAT is a door, Clicky…*

Until next time, have fun and… Have a Song ❤

Story Time: Pour, Know…Poor, No

😀 Welcome back, Dear Reader, for another amazing tale from the Okie Devil of Text US, Cade F.O.N. Apollyon. Like ‘Hee Haw Hockey‘, the following short story appeared in ‘Underdog Anthology V: Six in Five in Four‘. It’s kinda…


*Oh it’s definitely saucy, Clicky…*

… adult in it’s theme, and is called ‘Pour, Know…Poor, No’…

Olyphant sounds like Elephant

*It is that, Clicky…*

… So if you’re the type to be easily triggered, Dear Reader, then… Enjoy! 😉

*Jet aim… /rolls eyes…*


‘His throbbing cock rose like a submarine going through and emergency surface maneuver. She gasped in delight at the sight of the meaty ship of bounty that had suddenly appeared. Almost as if by instinct, she threw herself onto the bed and spread her legs to expose the moist ocean of delight that was now eagerly awaiting his fleshy meat torpedo to submerge it’s shadowy depths.
‘He approached her confidently as she lay on the bed, his errect cock swinging like a penduluum as he walked. He glanced at the crux of her wide-spread legs and noticed her casm had began to slowly ooze her white juices in a steady flow that ran straight into the crack of her ass. His meaty cock was already standing straight up, and yet the sight of her vagina’s juices flowing made his rod pulse to an even more errect state.
‘As he joined her on the bed, there was no need to take his cock in-hand…destiny and desire would guide the target home at this point. Their bodies uniting was both a metaphysical and physical certainty at this point…and sure enough, like a submarine sailing into The Grand Canyon…’

The author paused in his writing.

Wait…if her vagina is “The Grand Canyon”…and his penis is “a submarine”…there ain’t much going to be going on there, he thought to himself. He continued his inward observations and critiques of his own writing…I mean, can you imagine what a submarine would look like in The Grand Canyon? He imagined himself standing at an observation point in Grand Canyon National Park, and then trying to find a 560 foot long Ohio-class nuclear submarine located within the 277 mile long, 18 mile wide, 1 mile deep canyon.

If sighted, what would that look like? he wondered. If his penis was a submarine, and her vagina was The Grand Canyon, the submarine would fucking disappear alright, and not in a good way.Men don’t like to think of their massive meaty manliness suddenly going from a mighty man-o-war, to completely invisible. Men? Who in the fuck am I writing this for anyway? Surely I’m not writing it for men…am I? No, I’m not. I’m writing it for no one. I’m writing this for no one in particular, but I only have the male perspective, and really have only my own male perspective based on my own experiences.

A long pause ensued in his being as to exactly what that meant, and to whom. More importantly, when. What do my experiences even mean anymore? he further wondered to himself as he contemplated jerking off, going to bed, and forgetting the whole thing.

Holy FUCK this is confusing. Subs are all about stealth and being able to disappear. But submarines don’t necessarily go away when they disappear. You just can’t see them, and usually can’t hear them either. No wonder dicks are usually referred to as “love rockets” or “heat-seeking moisture missiles”. They are big, noisy, overt and there’s little doubt as to a rocket’s intentions and purposes. It’s much easier sticking to what you know and running with the crowd than it is trying think outside the box and come up with something new. Box? Fuck!!! Women’s vaginas are sometimes referred to as a box. Inside the box, outside the box…sounds sexy…except not.

He sighed as he contemplated the energies devoted to symbolism in writing as it pertained to sex. Why is everything so distorted? So misplaced? Submarines and canyons? Oceans? Birds? Bees? Flowers? Vesica piscis and missiles? “Misplaced parts” is kind of ironic considering how well all of the parts mesh together without all of the symbolism and hype. Yeah…like…”the real thing”. Fucking. Intercourse. Getting freaky. Doing the nasty. Bumping uglies. Ten toes to Jesus. No one is thinking geometry or horticulture when grinding naughty bits together. He continued his inward rant. There are no chasms, nor is there any subversion in sex. All of those gaps have already been bridged and crossed by the time any actual fucking starts, so what it is I’m missing…other than a partner? How can I write about sex if I’m not having any? Is that my problem? Why can’t I just say “he proceeded to maneuver his being into position within close proximity to her being, so as to facilitate the timely entry of his penis into her vagina”…that works…doesn’t it?

He had started his first attempt at “an erotic story” the previous night, writing a brief story in his head after searching the local classified ads looking for a “real” job. An advertisement under the “writing” section had caught his eye and sent his mind to spinning yarns.

‘$$ Erotica authors needed for short story submissions’

After some quick thoughts on smut and “erotica” that he had read as a youth, he began to concoct a story line in his head. It started with the fucking parts of course, because this is erotica after all. He wondered if working backwards was really the way to go. No one is going to want to read some sensual and intimate romantic bullshit,are they? Doesn’t romance and intimacy always end in tears of the “bad” variety? He decided to stick with the sticky stuff to start.

The next day, he sat down and tried to type out some of his ideas which were then passed along to a friend, his editor, for her thoughts. She seemed to get a good laugh out of it. If for no other reason than the horrendous spelling. But a laugh was not what he was looking for. If he had wanted a laugh, he could have just taken a picture of his own pathetically inadequate and unused penis, posted that as his profile picture on Twitter, then sauntered off into oblivion in search of an adequate rock to bury his inadequate being under. He was trying to write an erotic story here, not a fucking comedy piece. A fucking…comedy…piece. I wonder if that would work, he mused to himself. No…stick to the basics, and see what you can do before sauntering off elsewhere. I can do this.

“She gasped in delight at the sight of the meaty ship of bounty that had suddenly appeared on her horizon”…is how that should likely read. It kinda goes with the whole “fringe” and “verge” vibe,all while staying with the “ships” and “oceans” kinds of vibe(s). Also likely should be a “metronome” instead of a “pendulum” since it’s standing up rather than flopping around like a wobbly plumb-bob seeking center in the middle of an earthquake.

Chasm not casm. FUCK!!! How many typos do I have in this fucking thing? I guess I should re-read again before dumping any further ideas on my editor. “My” editor. Since when did she become mine? Relationships are tough to figure out when you start slapping labels on them. I thought labels were supposed to create these clearly-defined barriers and boundaries that helped us to survive the tempests that seem to rock our worlds. Maybe not. Maybe they help to create and even facilitate these storms.

Lemme try again, don’t change a thing. Just make some corrections, and rewrite without rewriting. He wished himself a good luck, but noted that getting lucky would likely help more. Maybe I should go watch some porn, and watch everything except the fucking parts? The intro bits, although typically corny, can be quite hot sometimes. Not yet…let’s keep writing…

‘His throbbing cock rose like a submarine going through an emergency surface maneuver. She gasped in delight at the sight of this meaty ship of bounty that had suddenly appeared on her horizon. There will be no mutiny on this bounty. Almost as if by instinct, she threw herself onto the bed and spread her legs to expose the moist ocean of delight that was now eagerly awaiting his fleshy meat torpedo to submerge its shadowy depths in anticipation of the explosion to cum…’

She’s not wanting him to cum already is she? She wants him to come, not cum, not yet. He’s not wanting to cum already is he? I mean yeah, I intentionally changed that from “come” to “cum” in order to be racy. But “the explosion to come” is the passion of the actual coupling, and not his spooging the USDA recommended daily allowance of semen all over the room. And yeah, he’s gotta cum anywhere and everywhere except inside her vagina…right? He again paused in his thinking and attempted to correlate his own personal experiences, with that which is typically depicted in pornography or some other form of erotica.

Women seem to be fascinated by a particular penis that they have unrestricted access to. And by unrestricted access, we are talking about a man who had shed all pride and pretense, both flaccid and erect, and given the green light for his lover to perform any and all tests and observations they deem necessary on this particular package, its contents, and states. And while we ponder this package,let us not forget the testicles and scrotum. The penis, even in and at the height of its glory, pales in comparison to the fascination that seems to be generated by this oft orphaned accessory pack…sack…thingie.

‘He approached her confidently as she lay on the bed. His erect cock pointing ever skyward, and swinging back and forth like a metronome that kept time with his steps as he walked. Counting down the fleeting seconds until its ample girth would be delivering its timely pleasure load to her wet pussy palace…’

Pussy…Palace? Sounds like a topless bar. And topless bars have absolutely fuckall to do with the vulva, except for the g-strings that cover the one place you won’t be going in a topless bar. You get fucked in a topless bar…not laid. His personal philosophy was really starting to boil now. And what about “the pussy”? Not to mention “the vagina”? THERE’S NOTHING THERE!!! he mused to himself almost aloud. Yeah, ok, with respect to the vagina there is something there, but not really. The vulva is actually more apt description with respect to getting to where you want to be. The “Bermuda Triangle” lays atop, hiding the waiting dangers to be explored, and the clitoris lay hidden within the lush and hopefully musty and damp forest.

Let’s take it from the top…wait…top. Here I am talking “titty bars” thanks to my “pussy palace” reference, and I’ve not even given a second thought to this woman’s breasts. But why should I? A woman’s breasts aren’t sexual organs. They’re cake on top of a pie that is served with ice cream and beer in a restaurant that you just can’t get enough of no matter what is being served. She is both your hostess and waitress in a joint she herself owns, and no matter how bad her breath stinks nor how bitchy she gets when menstruating, I want to eat there all the time. I can even tolerate the pre- and postmenstruating bullshit. Those are simply temporary “irritations” which are actually just more things to talk about. Or at least, they certainly can be. So…center and centers. Center. It’s really not “all about the pussy” is it? If so, wouldn’t that make all women…lesbians? Nope. Can’t be. Not even close. You’ve also forgotten…kissing.Fondling. Buildup, and breakdown. Arcs…plural.

He stared at the cursor blinking on the screen for a long time. He didn’t mind using “sassy” vernacular within the scope and confines of a relationship, but it didn’t make sense outside of that and those realms. To write a story is one thing, but to write a story that caters to some group or groups in particular? Greek. All of it…Greek. Swahili. He had trouble relating to a single person, let alone relating to several. Perhaps the brush is too big, he wondered to himself. I’m not trying to please every woman. I’m trying to please one woman. And I’m trying to do that via my own short penis which, despite it’s lack of numerical significances in the plus column, actually gets quite hard. Or it used to anyway.

He glanced at the clock on his computer…23:47. He decided to wander outside to see if the moon was up.

‘He glanced at the nexus of her wide-spread legs, her own hands under each of her thighs to assist in holding them spreadeagle and aloft, her legs shaking slightly in what was surely her anticipation of his mounting and penetrating her with his meaty fuckrod. He began to inspect the ample hair piled atop her love nest, and then followed the trails of pussy hair downwards with his eyes to where the hair covered the meaty gates of perdition that beckoned him forward to enter. A sudden glint on her pussy maze caught his eye, and he noticed that the waiting chasm hidden by her engorged and meaty pussy lips had began to slowly ooze a river of her white love juices in a steady flow that ran straight into the crack of her ample round ass.’

Great. Now her ass is “ample”. No honey, your ass isn’t big, it’s ample. But, when you are given access, isn’t any woman’s ass “ample”, irrespective of actual dimensions? I’m not going to have the guy break out the calipers in order to get a Body Mass Index on her ass. Would that be a Body-Ass Index? Booty-Ass Index? He reached into his shorts, then grabbed the head of his penis…manipulating it back and forth between his thumb, index and middle fingers. He could feel a slight wetness on his fingers, stopped typing for a moment, and then used his other hand to pull his shorts aside, exposing his entire penis and testicles.

Hmmm…pre-cum. I guess I’m getting myself kinda hot thinking about licking this woman’s vaginal cum out of her ass crack, he thought to himself. There was a moment of contemplation as to locating a ruler to measure his drooping penis as it hung in anguish in one hand, while the other hand continued to hold the shorts aside. But what would that add to the story? What could that add to the story. A detraction? Is the addition of a detraction… an addition, or a detraction?

He was firmly entrenched in “average” and had been so for as long as he could remember. The guy that we are writing about is hung like a stallion, has a heart that can pump enough to blood to keep his boner skyward for days, likely has giant muscles, great mug, a good job, plenty of cash, big house, cool car…the works…right? We’ve none of that. Not any more anyway. How can I possibly write about something that I know nothing about? I can’t relate to this guy in any way.

Another staring contest with the blinking cursor on his computer screen. “You are never going to finish this,” he said aloud. The cursor did not respond nor reply. Simply continued it’s mechanical blinking shortly after each and every character typed.

The moon is beautiful though, he thought to himself. High in the midnight Texas sky, and so bright that it casts shadows. Plenty of stars too, he added. The only thing missing is someone to gaze at the stars with me. That’s romance dipshit. This is a fucking erotic story about fucking.

‘His meaty cock was already standing straight up, and so erect that it almost hurt. And yet the sight of her love canal’s juices flowing made his rod begin to pulse to an even more erect state that he only previously would have thought impossible. As he neared joining her on the bed, he caught the briefest glimpse of her scent with his nose. Almost on instinct, he suddenly had the desire to shove his face directly into her love trap, now glimmering with pussy juice, so as to lap up every drop.’

Women…don’t…smell. I mean…yeah…most of the time they don’t. But even when they do, they don’t. Got it? He briefly contemplated counting the number of times that the cursor would need to blink before it was considered a prompting to get back to typing. He found this odd, as usually when writing, he didn’t give the cursor a second thought except to it’s location on the page. He stopped typing again, and once again pulled his penis from his shorts. This time, he pulled the shorts further to the side, and then pulled the entire length of his scrotum from his shorts so as to expose the entirety of his scrotum and both testicles.

He shoved his left hand at the very base of his scrotum, and lifted the enclosed testicles upwards while holding his penis to the side with the other hand. As the testicles remained elevated with his left hand, he used his right hand to push back the hair at the top and base of his penis to get a better idea as to the dimensions. He could suddenly feel something in his urethra, and at the same time, a large clear drop emerged from the head of his penis. He let go of his scrotum, letting the testicles fall rather unceremoniously as they retreated back into their more natural state of hanging. His now free left hand wiped the large clear drop away before it fell from the tip of his penis, then with the same hand he transferred the contents now resting mostly on his thumb to a nearby paper towel. That shit will stretch forever, he thought to himself. I’m just going to leave my junk hanging out of my shorts while I write, and if another drop comes out, I’m just going to let it drip. I’m betting it will reach all the way to the floor and still stay connected.

‘As he joined her on the bed, there was no need to take his cock in-hand…destiny and desire would guide the target safely home at this point. Their bodies uniting as one in perfect harmony was both a physical and metaphysical certainty. There was no going back, and as much as he desired licking the sweet glimmering pussy nectar from her asshole so that not a single drop was wasted, he knew that she wanted his cock inside her..post-haste…again and again.
‘He placed his knees on the bed, then leaned over and positioned himself on top and above her, simultaneously taking one of the supple nipples of her ample breasts into his mouth. He felt something emanating from the head of his engorged cock…pre-cum, lubricant, and none too soon. He felt the warmth of her pussy on the head of his cock, as her wild and raspy pubic hair reached out to tickle the head of his rod. He pushed his hips forward as she simultaneously wrapped her legs around him, urging his penetrating thrust forward…and sure enough, like a submarine sailing into her grandest of canyons…’

Isn’t The Grand Canyon also kinda…dry? I really need to work on these associations. There was that comedy angle too. Not sure what happened there with the comedy angle, but I’m pretty fucking sure what didn’t happen with the comedy angle. But isn’t comedy actually, typically anyway, kinda…tragic?

His eyes once again turned to the steadily blinking cursor. Perhaps it’s the poetry? he thought. The blinking cursor continued its profane rant. The poetry of the moment. Perhaps the poetry of a moment. A moment that was. A moment that is. A moment to come. He pondered his own thinking, and wrestled inwardly with the desire to substitute “cum” for “come” Would such trivialities matter in that moment?

“Where in the FUCK am I going to take this story?” he said aloud. He’s entered her, she has enveloped him, do I now give a play-by-play of every grunt, groan and grimace? And if so, what clock do I use? Seconds? Milliseconds? Hours? We want this shit to last don’t we? WAIT!!! Maybe that’s it! Maybe the phone rings mid-coitus, she’s a world famous rocket scientist, and her scientific research group has just detected a mysterious signal from deep space. They need her to get busy on designing and building a new rocket to explore the part of the Universe from whence this signal doth emanate. She slips out of character, into her clothes, vaginal drippings and all, leaves a gooey trail all the way to her sassy BMW convertible, but not before telling him to lock the door behind him on his way out. Genius. I think it’s time to send this piece of shit story over to other eyes, and see what they think.

The response via email was quick. Well that didn’t take long, he thought to himself. “That’s what she said,” he chortled aloud.

‘I’ve spaced it out and put indents in. A couple of typos corrected. Changed the editor to a she from the start, but if you want to change that back, no biggie.

‘I look forward to reading the rest :D’

He stared blankly at the email for a moment. Um, that’s all there was dear lady. That’s all there is. Should I take the opportunity to be risque here? Nope. I think I’ll pass on that. Read what she’s sent back, see what’s she done with this monstrosity, and continue to fuck it up completely from there.

Also in lieu of taking the opportunity to be cheeky, I wonder perhaps if maybe I should instead take some time to explain what a Ohio-class submarine is? While I’m doing that, maybe I can even work out the logistics involved in somehow getting a 16,000+ ton, nuclear powered ballistic missile submarine into The Grand Canyon. Sixteen-thousand tons is 32,000,000 pounds. The largest flying machine that we currently have, The Antonov An-225, can only lift around 500,000 pounds, so we’re going to need 64 of them. A submarine would never fit inside of 64 different aircraft cargo bays without a chainsaw and a shitload of petroleum jelly, so how in the fuck can I get this thing into The Grand Canyon? Launch the submarine into space via some giant heat-seeking moisture missile, and then parachute the submarine safely back to Earth where the submarine would land safely in The Grand Canyon?

‘The massive fleet of dirigibles took flight in unison in order to hoist the gigantic submarine aloft and towards its new home, based somewhere in The Grand Canyon. Here, the submarine could prowl the ever rising moist and willing waters of The Colorado River, searching for prey. These waters were, as of yet, devoid of predators or any other unseen threats…but that would soon change.’

“That has a nice Steampunk ring to it,” he said to himself aloud.



*Indeed. For synchronous ocular and genital secretions, Clicky… Proper paw gno…*

Come back on Tuesday, Dear Reader, for the third of Cade’s Underdog Anthology V stories. And don’t forget, the sixth is coming soon… Have a Song ❤