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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
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Party Pooper from Make Me

by Eli Richardson

playing possum one last time

I come to on the porch. My boots are half-off and hanging from my feet at a broken angle. I gather myself. My mouth tastes like kitty litter. The sky has a sickly green color and everything is deathly still. I try the door again. And again. I go around back.

Poolside, Tracy is on a chaise lounge and in a bikini. She has a martini dangling from two fingers of one hand. From two fingers of her other hand a long cigarette smolders. She has her head draped over the back of the lounger, looking up at her husband leaning against the railing, talking to him. Through the railings of the deck I can see that the Troy is stroking himself through his trunks with the hand that is not holding a drink. I walk up to the pool. "Hi Tracy," I say. "Don't get up."

"Hi," says Tracy, struggling to get out of the lounger without falling out of her suit.

"Hi," says Troy. "You’re just what this party needs. Tracy was just telling us again about being a sex slave for her father's satanic cult. Let me get you a drink." He disappears from the deck with a straight-legged, uncomfortable looking gait.

"That's right," Tracy says. "I was just saying that I've been having these dreadful memories of being tied down and having my father and my mother and all their neighbors and just, well, EVERYBODY having their way with me just about ANY WAY and ANY old TIME and I was saying how all this is just now coming up to the surface and how it's just TERRIBLE." Tracy stops to right herself and dips her toe in the pool as I steady her. "And the more I was talking the more questions Troy asked and the more I remembered and pretty much it got to be that it seemed even Troy could remember what I was going through as specific as his questions were getting and I was getting all worked up and he just kept pumping me for details and Lord! It was almost too much, like it was all really happening," Tracy says before diving into the pool and resurfacing on her back with her ample breasts bobbling on the ripples of the pool. Her eyes are closed and the pool water comes off her face like tears.

"Again," I say

"What?" asks Tracy really loud. "I can't hear you," she screams, paddling. "Whatever. I'm tired of thinking. Troy makes me think about it all the time." There are dark and menacing clouds over Tracy. The wind swirls. I feel a drop.

The water in the pool begins to chop. I watch Tracy idle around the pool. She is beautiful. She is beautiful for her age. She is beautiful for any age. Her legs are long. Her hair is blond. Tracy is built. Tracy is also extraordinarily ditzy. She can be convinced of anything. Like love.

playing possum one last time

"Here's some more gin," says Troy. He enters the pool fence carrying a tray with some glasses and a large frosted pitcher. He's wearing a robe. He back-kicks the gate shut. The wind catches it and blows it into his ass. Troy makes a Betty Boop face and throws out his pelvis. I can't help but notice the bulge in his shorts exposed as his robe opens. I look down. "Mmm Oooo," says Tracy. "I looove you. You are sooo goood tooo meeee..." She props herself on the pool edge and squeezes her chest between her arms. She hooks a finger in her mouth and gives a naughty look to the motherfucker. Tracy keeps the look going as she turns to me.

We sit in the living room waiting for it to happen. I look at Tracy looking at me. Troy comes into the room. "Here. I made you another drink," he says. He's opened his robe.

I take the drink, sip from it and set it on the coffee table. I knock over one of the three martini glasses already lined up in front of me. Nobody moves to right the spilled glass. It rolls slowly and drops to the white shag carpet. Everybody stares blankly. The cat reaches out and lazily bats at the glass. Outside the storm rages with horizontal rain and hail, lashing at the sliding glass doors.

"Mommy want martini nini."

"Mommy isn't going to be worth much if she keeps sucking down gin," Troy says, standing over Tracy and looking down. "Why doesn't Mommy go in the bedroom and get her toy?"

"My toy?" Tracy asks, her voice rising with her eyebrows.

"The bong you airhead. Get some of that Thai stick my brother left. Or, no. Let's burn some of that Amsterdam hash."

"O.K.," Tracy says. She's still wearing her bikini. I notice her hard nipples. The evening is cold and wet, but Troy keeps the air conditioner on.

"The girl loves getting high," Troy says, plopping down on the leather sofa next to me. "How 'bout you, hmm?" he asks. "Do you like to get high?" Troy has girth and sits deeper in the sofa's cushion. I begin to slide into his lap. He puts his arm around me and pulls me close. I reach out to brace myself. My hand lands on his thigh. It is warm and robust. I don't move. He begins to rub my back. He strokes his face against my scalp. We both could use a shave. "Daddy likes getting high with his little pets," he says. With his free hand he moves my hand up his thigh. "Daddy's pets his pets his pets...You're all pink in the middle.” I put my head in his lap and watch the storm. Things go fuzzy. There's another, smoother body on the couch and a lot of contact. I just kind of go with it.

playing possum one last time

By the time things settle down I’m alone on the floor. How I got here is a bit confusing. I remember the bong, having a man's hand on the back of my head, Troy without his robe, some yelling, and a long moment with Tracy only wearing her bikini bottoms and reaching out to me as Troy pulled her into the other room.

I can hear them in their bedroom. Tracy's voice is muffled like her face is pressed into something. All I can make out is the word, "hurt," garbled into other things. I hear a rhythmic chopping sound like bone on bone. Tracy whimpering.

The cat comes over and flops against my belly. He lies in the warm spot on the floor I just vacated; begins to clean himself with one of his hind legs sticking straight into the air and the bell around his neck tinkling along with the rhythmic slapping coming from the bedroom. My free hand slides down my body and between my legs.

Through my eyes half-opened I notice Tracy sliding in the shadows on the other side of the room. "O, are you awake?" she whispers. "I didn't mean to wake you." She has blankets and a pillow stacked in her arms.

“You've come to me," I say, reaching up to her in the dim room. A flash of lightning freezes my arm stretching to her.

"Yes. Yes I have," Tracy says, kneeling beside me. "Let me make it better. Let Mommy make it better. Trust Mommy." With another lightening flash I see her hair in disarray. Some of it stands straight from her head. There are red marks on her neck. Mascara runs from her eyes. The image burns into my brain. Tracy stark naked. She lays the blankets and pillow down and leans in close. I let her kiss me.

Tracy and I have made a little pallet out of the blankets. My head is buried in her cleavage and I'm whispering, "Mommy," over and over. She strokes and cradles my head. Under her breath I can hear her say, "Baby, baby, baby..."

With my eyes closed and wrapped up tight against Tracy's chest I know when Troy comes into the room by the way Tracy grips me and insists, "Baby! Baby!... It's all right... Baby!"

I can smell Troy. I can smell the earthy, spoiled smell of him. He stands over me. I hear the husking sound of skin on dry skin. Then, Troy is gone. I hear the refrigerator door open. The compressor fan kicks on after awhile. Tracy begins to rock me. I hear things moving around on the refrigerator racks and then the door slams. I hear Troy's feet sticking on the tile as he crosses the kitchen. His progress is silenced as he moves through the living room on the carpet. He's back standing over Tracy and me. I hear his skin rubbing itself again. Suddenly the sliding door opens and the room fills with howling wind and cold mist.

"I want you to watch, Mommy," Troy says and kneels at my back. I feel his hands land. One is on my head and one on my shoulder. He forces them apart and places his hot cock in the crease of my neck. I hear Tracy sucking air over her teeth. Troy's cock tenses and bounces against the clammy skin of my throat. "Relaxxx..." he tells me.

His hand trails down my arm and grabs my wrist. He guides my hand past the triangle of Tracy's pubic hair and pushes it between her legs. My middle finger finds a slick groove. Troy's hand glides to my hips, jerks my pants open and begins to work them down. With his other hand he begins to spread something oily along my ass crack and on my anus.

"It's butter," Tracy tells me. "It will help. Take it from Mommy. Mommy knows."

My pants catch at my knees and I feel Troy's hand slide under me. He picks me up and supports my weight by my belly. I'm atop Tracy, looking into her eyes. She blinks at me and allows her eyes to trail down my body to my crotch. There's lightning and I hear Tracy gasp at the same time Troy puts his weight into me. I don't cry out but bite my lower lip hard. Both Troy and I grunt as a thunderclap rolls through the night. An incredibly empty feeling takes over me as I sink my head into Tracy's chest.

She keeps repeating, "Baby, baby," as her hand stops stroking my head and descends to join mine between her legs.

Later I wake to Tracy's cat roughly licking at the butter and whatever else is congealed on the small of my back. Everything is wet. There are leaves and trash in the living room. No one appears to be awake. It seems strangely quiet. I must have been having loud dreams. I roughly shove at the cat and reach to pull up my pants. I get on my hands and knees to find my missing boot under the sofa. I stand up and hop around as I slip the boot on. I look up just as the bedroom door clicks shut. My bowels move painfully. I double over and then collapse. It feels like there's a gerbil burrowing in my intestines. I shoot a hand into my pants. My anus is swollen and puckered. My fingers snag on the sticky parts as I feel around the bulb. Memories of last night come over me like a storm. I throw up a little in my mouth, then swallow.

your most loved/hated politican

I move into the kitchen and look at the clock on the microwave. I run some ice in a glass out of the dispenser in the refrigerator door. I pour what's left of last night's gin in the glass and finish it with three hard pulls. Back in the living room I find Tracy's cigarettes. There's one left. I reach in my pocket for my lighter and feel something foreign. I pull five crisp one hundred dollar bills out of my pocket with the lighter. I spark the cigarette. I smoke casually, ashing on the floor. I stoop to put the hash in my sock. I go out the open deck door. I come back in, pacing. I fiddle with the cigarette pack. Finally I crumple it. "Here puss," I say, making the cellophane crackle, "get it." I throw the empty pack out to the deck. It bounces once and then goes between the deck's railings. The cat does the same thing. I hear a splash.

© Eli Richardson 2008