Home Page Photo

The Big Stupid Review


American Dream Serialization (Early Chapters)
Introduction to Jim Chaffee's Studies in Mathematical Pornography by Maurice Stoker
Introduction to Jim Chaffee's Studies in Mathematical Pornography by Tom Bradley
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: American Dream Title Page by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 1 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 2 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 3 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 4 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 5 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 6 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 7 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 8 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 9 by Jim Chaffee
Modern Tragedy, or Parodies of Ourselves by Robert Castle
Totally Enchanté, Dahling by Thor Garcia
Hastini by Rudy Ravindra
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 5 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
Unexpected Pastures by Kim Farleigh
Nonviolence by Jim Courter
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 4 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
The Poet Laureate of Greenville by Al Po
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part VI by Thor Garcia
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 3 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part V by Thor Garcia
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part IV by Thor Garcia
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 2 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part I by Thor Garcia
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part II by Thor Garcia
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part III by Thor Garcia
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 1 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
DADDY KNOWS WORST: Clown Cowers as Father Flounders! by Thor Garcia
RESURRECTON: Excerpt from Breakfast at Midnight by Louis Armand
Review of The Volcker Virus (Donald Strauss) by Kane X Faucher: Excerpt from the forthcoming Infinite Grey by Kane X Faucher
Little Red Light by Suvi Mahonen and Luke Waldrip
TEXECUTION: Klown Konfab as Killer Kroaked! by Thor Garcia
Miranda's Poop by Jimmy Grist
Paul Fabulan by Kane X Faucher: Excerpt from the forthcoming Infinite Grey by Kane X Faucher
Operation Scumbag by Thor Garcia
Take-Out Dick by Holly Day
Patience by Ward Webb
The Moon Hides Behind a Cloud by Barrie Darke
The Golden Limo of Slipback City by Ken Valenti
Chapter from The Infinite Atrocity by Kane X. Faucher
Support the Troops By Giving Them Posthumous Boners by Tom Bradley
When Good Pistols Do Bad Things by Kurt Mueller
Corporate Strategies by Bruce Douglas Reeves
The Dead Sea by Kim Farleigh
The Perfect Knot by Ernest Alanki
Girlish by Bob Bartholomew
The Little Ganges by Joshua Willey
The Invisible World: René Magritte by Nick Bertelson
Honk for Jesus by Mitchell Waldman
Red's Dead by Eli Richardson
The Memphis Showdown by Gabriel Ricard
Someday Man by John Grochalski
I Was a Teenage Rent-a-Frankenstein by Tom Bradley
Only Love Can Break Your Heart by Fred Bubbers
Believe in These Men by Adam Greenfield
The Magnus Effect by Robert Edward Sullivan
Performance Piece by Jim Chaffee
Injustice for All by D. E. Fredd
The Polysyllogistic Curse by Gary J. Shipley
How It's Done by Anjoli Roy
Ghost Dance by Connor Caddigan
Two in a Van by Pavlo Kravchenko
Uncreated Creatures by Connor Caddigan
Invisible by Anjoli Roy
One of Us by Sonia Ramos Rossi
Storyteller by Alan McCormick
Idolatry by Robert Smith
P H I L E M A T O P H I L I A by Traci Chee
They Do! by Al Po
Full TEX Archive
Side Photo for The Big Stupid Review

A Night in Cameroon - 3

by Kelly Jameson

room with legs and full toad

Grand pianos have a special repetition lever in the playing action. This lever, as I understand it, a separate one for every key, catches the hammer close to the strings as long as the keys are played repeatedly and somewhat fleetly. In this position, with the hammer resting on the lever, a pianist can play repeated notes, staccato, trills with more speed and control than on a vertical piano.

I kick at him, bite him harder than before, but this only drives him to frenzy. He pumps me like he will rip me in two. I scream and bite his ear, drawing blood.

"What the fuck bitch?… "

He looks over the side of the piano. He looks up, realizes there's only a foot or two until the piano crushes both our bodies into the ceiling.

…holy shit this fucking thing's going up…goddamn the floor's down there a long fucking ways…the ceiling Jesus the goddamn ceiling's inches away…we'll be stuck but the goddamn thing can't push that hard…we'll be okay…


It's all he says.

He looks into my eyes, his pupils ironed dark marbles of shock.


He's still inside me when he runs out of room and becomes intimate with the ceiling. One of the heels of my stilettos snaps off. Sounds like bone breaking.

DOPPLER EFFECT = As an ambulance speeds toward you, sirens blazing, the sound you hear is high in pitch because the sound waves in front of the vehicle are being squashed together by the moving ambulance. This causes more vibrations to reach your ear per second, resulting in a higher pitched sound. When the ambulance passes you, the sound becomes lower in pitch. Behind the ambulance there are fewer vibrations per second, and a lower sound is heard. This change in pitch is known as the Doppler Effect.

goddamn pressure…gonna push me through the goddamn ceiling…can't breathe…

Two hundred thirty-five pounds male flesh compressing my chest as we crush against the ceiling; can't move anything, not chest, hips, legs, arms. He's inside me; impaled and bound and now something wet inside me running down my legs crack of my ass, smell like shit sperm piss rot decay death blood, God I see us as just two more damned with Saint Anthony's Fire in those paintings by that ergot-addled Dutch Flem Hieronymus Bosch. Welcome to the religious brotherhood of our lady… Oh God Jones tries to speak…only grunts. And then spittle. He gasps, tries to speak; crushes against the ceiling features twisted face distorted eyes bulging mouth open only liquid no sound emitting vomit brown soup atop a piano, run-of-the-mill strip club jazzed up with levitating piano-and-girl act painted reality by Bosch.

Numb, octaves above the fundamental, heat wetness liquid something, don't want to think how things compressed inside Jones, fetid air liquid slop trickles from anus and mouth oozing to drips God no gushing please God. Medieval torture devices, people crushed by other people because of religion or views or words, crushed to jelly, flesh lacerated to bone. Crushed for fucking. Dog snarling at poverty stricken old man. Something gives, his bones piercing his flesh with excruciating slowness, his marrow gushing out. I cry. Feel trapped in an Italian tourist trap, hundreds of people pressing down on me, mouths with black, rotted teeth, gaping open, heavy and hot and stinking, laughing an exhibit in a museum that houses ancient torture devices operated by demons birds beak frog legs legless feet. I think I hear something, some sound, far away. Wailing? Skates scraping ice? Sails flapping ship of fools. Coconuts pounding small breasts flat, coconut milk dripping flopping glopping onto flesh? Shallower and shallower breaths; think about how Jones was a star defensive tackle in high school and start to see pinpricks of light behind my eyes, little shooting stars, and high school and even this morning and even just five minutes ago a long time ago now.

I had this science teacher in middle school, he told our class about an experiment suffocating dogs by placing air-tight rubber mask over their heads and it only took eight minutes for the dogs to cardiac arrest. It made me feel so sad. Jones the sound of mud sucking at the boots of a man. The dogs convulsed before death. Jones convulsing.

I want to pull him close—ha!—and cover his almost screams with a kiss, only I feel like a damper pedal under a giant foot, stationary, and I realize I am trying to scream but nothing comes out of my mouth. Fat ugly whore swallowing the sky… I've just had a man die inside me, his cock still inside me, at least I hope he's dead, and why am I still breathing, air escaping my lungs in little meteor streaks, small spirals of milkshake-through-straw-breaths? Shooting stars are a bonus of stargazing, if I watch the sky on a dark night for half an hour they say I should spot a few brief streaks of light—meteors mined, dog barking in the distance, all I need is a blanket, a clear view of the sky on a dark moonless night, a cool beer, but if I watch too hard I'll never see them. I'm not sure how long we've been up here. It's been more than eight minutes for sure. It feels like eight hours. I see shooting stars now…

Someone hits the switch and the piano lowers to the floor. (Shooting stars are grit from space colliding at high speed with air molecules. That's all. What are these?)

"Don't get up." A paramedic peers down at me. They start to carefully pull Jones' body from me. One of them says, "Wait," realizes Jones' penis has been crammed inside me for hours, or however long it's been, and they talk quietly together.

"You'll experience a sudden change of blood pressure when we move him," the paramedic says. They talk again in low voices and I feel another little death as they disconnect Jones from me.

"I'm alive?" I feel an urge to scream, "Sex is good for you!" That would've made Jones laugh.

"Just relax and trust us, okay?"


"Is he…?"

"I'm afraid so. You were damned lucky. He was crushed against the ceiling but his body cushioned yours."

I am riches come through combat. I wonder if Jones kept his football trophies from high school, if they are in a box in a basement somewhere, collecting dust. Grit. The shooting stars are gone.

I'm lucky? My breasts are flattened like pancakes. I think of the girls in Cameroon and I know them now. I know them now. There are tiny indentations from Jones' body and bones and chest hairs on my skin, like a bed of nails has been lying on me. I amaze everyone when I sit up and try to walk away. Except I forget about my broken stiletto, and naked, stumble into the arms of a waiting paramedic. "Easy," he says. "Easy." Still, I let them take me to the trauma unit and put me through their tests. Nothing is broken. No other injuries. They prescribe horse pills to ward off any infection that might be caused, say, by having a dead man's penis inside me for eight hours or so. I will try not to think about this later as I sit at my tiny kitchen table in my tiny apartment, eat my Fruity Pebbles with skim milk, drink my tiny darts of black coffee.

A few weeks later and I've finally mustered courage to dance at the club. The night is over and I'm getting ready to leave. I know I'll never dance on top of the piano again. I see the owner of the club talking to a rough-looking man.

"So, this is the infamous piano," he says. With his rough hands, he plays something beautiful on the keys, then shakes his head. "It's out of tune. What a shame."

The piano tuner is like I imagined he would be. Not handsome. Not careful in his appearance. Past his prime. A bit of a belly on him. We lock eyes. And though I'm wearing tight jeans and a tiny white T-shirt that leaves nothing to the imagination, he doesn't spare me or my tits a second glance after he's introduced to the piano. After she spreads her lips for him like a dime whore, he can't look away from her strings, her guts. His jeans are worn, his hands callused, his knuckles uneven and gnarled. I know I will fuck him until I am pushed so far out of consciousness that I almost won't exist, and the sleepiness afterward, staring at the sky, watching, breathing gulping looking swallowing shooting stars, waiting for something to connect, something that makes sense of accidents. I imagine my buttocks in the air, legs spread wide as he pumps me with his fat cock, those rough fingers spreading me apart so he can examine me as he examines the grand dame piano. I can't explain it. So I won't try. What's there to fix? What is there to be punished for? I am who I am intended to be.

Cristoforo? The Italian count who invented the first piano three hundred years ago? He died in obscurity. Jones will be remembered for some small time to come.

I look at the piano tuner. The piano and the man are the perfect blend of art and physics. In his startling imperfection, he is the most beautiful thing I've seen. He looks like he could take the devil—or a grand piano—in a fistfight. I can't explain it. So I won't.