His wife’s moaning droned on as the fifth man in line pounded deeper into her pussy. He couldn’t bear to see if the brute was reaming out her ass or her cunt. Decorum wouldn’t allow it; it could be a temptation to sinful thoughts.
And to think an hour ago they were praying the rosary…husband and wife and four kids.
A beefy sweat slicked hand yanked his ear and forced his face towards the sounds of his wife and daughters’ passion, their personal penile cavalry.
The statue of Our Lady of Fatima lay shattered on their newly varnished wood floors, floors now stained with the muddy and bloody tracks of intruders.
Bob turned his eyes from his wife and daughter’s violation.
To his son.
His son, Jonathan, forced to knees endured.
They urinated on his face. Bob’s commandeered shotgun pressed between the boy’s shoulder blades as they took turns.
And Bob’s neighborhood was supposed to be so safe. 90 minutes from the city, a commute Bob made every day, each way, happy, content, financially secure.
He hesitated when he should’ve pulled the trigger.
Hindsight is always 20/20.
Bob should’ve known when that neighborhood watchman shot a black man.
Bob should’ve known when the shooter was acquitted.
Should’ve known when the protests started.
Too afraid.
Too deluded.
Too late.
***
The leader of the mob that broke into his house was some giant black fellow, shirtless, big belly jutting over his belt, and man-boobs hanging out.
His cookie-sized nipples erect matched the bugle in his skinny jeans, face contorting in tics of sadistic glee, skinny legs pumping back and forth.
Between Bob and the five members of Bob’s family they paced, they danced, they hopped, they skipped.
Then stopped on one of their many revolutions in front of Philomena. Little Philomena, wan and pale, twelve and shaking in abject terror.
“An’ what? Little white girl,” Mr. Giant Nipples leaned over and leered at the pinioned girl, “You afraid of the big scwary black man. Yo parents tell you stories? Ha!” He said in a voice that lisped up in tone at the end of each statement. “I’m a good guy. I’m Santa Claus, can’ choo see, I’m giving muh boys gifts.”
He brayed like a donkey.
“Leave her alone!” Bob shouted, the first in a long time he had raised his voice to another adult, before a Timberland booted him in the mouth.
“Shut yo’ monkey mouth, bitch,” Mr. Giant Nipples said, “we own all this pussy now, white boi.”
Mr. Giant Nipples ran a big beefy hand up Philomena’s skirt. The motions under her skirt made Bob sick and enraged.
Bob broke free and swung a big haymaker at Mr. Giant Nipples.
In his rage, in his inexperience, Bob over committed and missed. Mr. Giant Nipples wrenched his arm behind him.
The next thing Bob knew was the floor pounding into his face.
Mr. Giant Nipples was shouting at him, “What, bitch? What! You gonna be a man. You soft white bitch.”
Bob heard the clatter of a belt buckle.
“I’m going show you ‘n them who be the man here!”
Rough knuckles dug into Bob’s back under his belt and his slacks were roughly yanked down to his ankles.
Cold air from the broken windows wafted across Bob’s ass.
Something warm and rubbery probed his ass cheeks.
“Oh yay, them sweet cheeks is butter. Daddy’s gonna has sum. Daddy’s gonna has sum!”
Mr. Giant Nipples’ meaty hand slammed Bob’s face into the floorboards.
His hands were pinned behind his back.
Mr. Giant Nipples shouted at the family, glaring at them in turn, “You see this, little girl? You see this devil, bitches!”
A feeling like needing to take a sudden massive shit filled Bob’s rectum.
A drizzle of sweat from Mr. Giant Nipples landed on Bob’s back. “Daddy’s getting some, yay! Daddy’s getting some, oh fuck, that’s sum tight shit! You white devils see? Do you see? We takin’ everything.”
Mr. Giant Nipples’ retinue cheered him on in high pitched jeering tones.
“Ayo, show dat nigga.”
“Yay, dawg.”
“Muh nigga be bussin’ up in here!”
“He be showin’ dat boi bussy da’ business ‘n sheeeiit.”
“Dat nigga wiggle his skinny butt good.”
“Ye, ye, ye he dun this befo!”
Mr. Big Nipples licked his lips and looked at Philomena.
“It be all ours, it be all ours.” He kept muttering with each thrust into Bob’s anus.
Mr. Giant Nipples’ retinue joined in the chant.
“It be all ours. It be all ours. It be all ours.”
The rapid stimulation to Bob’s prostate stimulated a boner in Bob’s loins. The sinful tingling of an orgasm began. Bob’s balls churned and leapt in anticipation.
Bob tried to focus on what Our Lady said at Fatima, he tried to remember Our Lord’s suffering at Calvary, but the tingling kept distracting him.
Only half-mumbled prayers spilled from his lips, and regret.
Regret he didn’t take that tactical shotgun course.
Regret he didn’t work out more.
Regret he didn’t go to that MMA gym his work buddy wanted him to.
Always the wife, the kids, Church, the job, what the boss wanted, what he needed to be to not be seen as a radical.
Now his son wept covered in piss, his wife and eldest daughters violated, he youngest rapt in fear.
The thrusts came harder and harder until a pleasant warmth filled his bowels as Mr. Giant Nipples emptied his balls.
At the release, the pressure became too much for Bob.
He creamed all over the floorboards.
A loud bang sounded; a freight truck impacted the back of Bob’s skull.
Mr. Giant Nipples had shot him.
***
There was a tunnel, and a light Bob was forthwith propelled towards the abyss of light beyond the clouds.
He soared, he floated, insensate, free from the burdens of tactile slavery that had imprisoned him for 38 years. No need to shit, cum, piss, sweat, bleed, shiver, recoil, or react.
He was pure will soaring towards a point beyond the sun.
In the distance, Bob could see a structure among the endless piles of cloud tops, glaring white upon glaring white. Golden veined pearlescent cerulean marble stiles flanking a massive bronze gate.
A giant voice boomed through the aether, “BOB! BOB! COME THOU HENCE FOR THINE JUDGMENT! FOR THE LORD OF HOSTS HAS COMMANDED IT AS IS THE APPOINTED TIME AND DAY!”
If Bob had a body, he would’ve trembled to the core.
Bob stopped before the gates before a man in the simple robes of a fisherman. Behind the man sat God the Father, beaming like the desert sun, too brilliant to look upon.
The man in the fisher’s robe spoke, “I am Peter. Let us begin.”
And so began the judgment of Bob; the brass scales were piled upon. Every fault and sin piled along with every good deed and virtue.
Until the scales tipped for the good.
If Bob had a heart, it would’ve leapt.
Until God the Father reached forward and placed some things, trinkets stained crimson, on the scale.
An engagement ring.
A plastic cowboy figurine.
A sterling silver bunny rabbit from a charm bracelet.
An American Girl Prairie Settler doll.
A small, stuffed teddy.
God the Father leaned forward, His brilliance growing to the darkest shadow, “Do you recognize these? Do you remember to whomst they belonged in life? To whom you failed your obligation, ‘Daddy?’”
Bob spluttered through lips he no longer had, “B-b-b-but I gave my life, I prayed, I was good—”
“Enough!” The Lord commanded, “I gave My Only Son, I tested my people, I suffered upon the cross. You could not in moment after moment decided to do what I did in Egypt? You quailed and covered it with false piety. YOUR LAST EARTHY ACT WAS OF ONAN! IN MY NAME YOU CLAIMED WEAKNESS RIGHTEOUS! AWAY WITH YOU!”
Like a cock tease, the going was a fraction of the coming.
Down Bob spirited through the heavens and the Earth until he reached Gehenna. Choking filth like thousand-day old cum mixed with rancid baby shit assailed his nose and mouth. Darkness closed over his eyes forever. Bob cursed God, cursed his father and mother under the fountains and geysers of sulfur-laced shit. Maggots and nematodes writhed over his blistered skin. Human and semi-human forms slammed against each other in violent tortured copulation. Worms writhed in sores on their skin in violent wriggling. Orange heat lightning lit the burning scene. Flesh roasted in dark blue flames, toadie dog-like demons assailed the blasted flesh of the damned, men, women, and hermaphrodites, with three foot long dongs.
Bob’s nose and cock blistered, bubbled, and suppurated in the darkened heat.
Millions of voices of despair assailed him from above, from below, from all sides.
And through all the chaos of the damned, Bob heard a familiar voice. The father of his death spoke, “Hey, bitch nigger white boy, dat ass be mine fo’ all eternity.”
He turned and saw, in a flash of lightning, Giant Negro Nipples of Doom.
Proteus Juvenalis, of the Lost Generation, is a cynic and misanthrope orbiting Neptune and contemplating his former home. His stream of consciousness broadcasts can be found on Telegram.
