Harry, returning from taking a shit in the woods, said, “What’d I miss?”

He shooed away the owl, removed a buck knife from his belt loop, and sliced off the piece of prolapsed anus. With the care of a mother swaddling its child, Harry wrapped the disgorged flesh in a handkerchief, spit an enormous mouthful of dip onto the octoroon’s face, and said, “I guess we’re about even, boy.”

Chris moaned softly as a pool of drool formed around his open mouth. Blood poured from his asshole like a crimson waterfall, coagulating around his thighs.

Finally Jack, shaking off his traumatized stupor said, “Let’s get ‘em, boys. Those two spirits put a curse on our team. They’re the reason for the run-rule loss.”

“That’s what this is for,” said Harry. He held up the blood-soaked handkerchief containing the anal prolapse. “Them two spirits fell right into my trap.”

Chris, the octoroon, was made to stand straight by the four white brothers. They each put a hand on him as Jack lifted the bloody prolapse to his lips.

“Eat this and you are one of us,” Jack said. “Eat this and become part of the Marlboro Reds.”

“Best fucking Little League team in the tri-county,” said Fat Will Slim, making a gun with his obese hand and jabbing Chris in the ribs.

Jack stuffed the anal blossom into the still bewildered octoroon’s mouth and said, “Come on, chew it up,” and began shoving Chris’ lower jaw up, let it fall again, and back up until the octoroon was chewing like a milk cow.

Nearly instantly, Chris’ mood changed. It was like he had picked up some of Slim’s meth as he swallowed the gristle of his asshole mixed with a now wet sediment from the chief’s turd.

Each of the men grabbed one of the two spirit braves and locked them in the in the tool shed. They bound the chief, exhausted from his metamorphosis and days-long anal serpent ceremony, to a tree with a piece of extension cord. Then, one by one, revenge was exacted on the two spirits.

They buried the first brave up to his waist in the ground.

“You want to be a part of the team?” Will asked Chris. “Let’s check out your swing.”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Let’s play a little tee-ball.”

Using the blunt end of an axe, Chris took swings at the brave’s head. The first hit knocked his jaw out past his ear. The spraying blood drove Chris into a frenzy; his blows came faster and faster. An eye dangled from its socket after the fourth blow. Teeth and bits of brain landed with palpable sound on the cold ground. By the seventh blow, the head was unrecognizable. But somehow, the brave teased, “Weeeee weeeee!”

“Come on boy, that all you got?” said Harry.

A tenth and final swing of the axe sent the brave’s head flying off his body. It tumbled like a grinning skull bowling ball out past the tree line.

“I’d say that’s a double,” said Jack.

“Maybe even a triple,” said Will.

Using the sharp end of the axe, Chris split the headless torso until it stood like a piece of partially-shucked corn. He retrieved the bloody head and said, “Who’s the bitch now, nigga?” Then he dropkicked it into the underbrush.

“RBI single,” said Jack.

Meanwhile, Big Weed Dave was lumbering after a spiritual queer and his spine was killing him, so the little twink got far ahead of him. For over a mile, Weed jogged in pursuit when he saw the two spirited one dragging one leg after him and then falling in the wide meadow. With his back on fire, Weed trudged on and saw Mr. Lipstick again on his feet but still dragging an injured leg.

What Weed didn’t know was that while the brave was prancing in retreat, he had stepped into a gopher hole and tore his Achilles tendon. Instantly, Weed gained fierce confidence and ran quicker than ever before, his two albatross arms winding around and around. He nearly caught the savage when his back went out and Big Weed was down.

“God,” he prayed, “please let that thing keep running with his face smashed sideways into the ground and his ass up in the air.” He was locked up. Couldn’t move at all besides the ability to lift his long arms at the shoulder.

But there he was. Big Weed watched him approaching, smiling with bright red lipstick like a clown. “Get out of here, you goddamned…freak!” Weed said, and just those few words sent sheer horrific pain through his nerves.

The native pulled the tube of lipstick out of his pants, applied it once more, and smacked his lips together like a carp. Then he was out of sight, disappearing behind Weed. He was back there for quite a while before Weed felt the thing’s hands on his pants. In no time, the Wrangler jeans were stripped off to his calves and the cool wind blew remarkably on the old white man’s bare buttocks.

When Big Weed saw the Indian again, it was completely naked with acorns somehow glued like pasties over his nipples. “Hee hee hee,” the brave laughed and began limping around stroking his dick until it was remarkably hard and, “hee hee hee,” he laughed again as he painted the tip of his dick with the red lipstick.

Weed tried to bite the Indian’s fingers when he walked over, knelt down, and began trying to add glamour to Weed’s face. The poor Indian wasn’t pleased because the red had missed a lot of Weed’s lips and instead was a scribbled mess.

“Hee hee,” said the two spirit and again he vanished behind Weed. The white man said, “Jesu…” and stopped himself from screaming to avoid the pain as an object touched the edge of his asshole. The native squatted behind him puckering his lips as he twirled the lipstick around, painting Weed’s hole an exquisite shade of red.

The aged white man heard the popping and smacking of the man’s jowls behind his anus and, in a second, Weed felt the acid move in revulsion in his stomach. When the slathering tongue of the Indian swiped up his taint and the tip hit the first wrinkle of the rectum, a hot wave of shit drenched the two spirit’s eyeballs, nose, ears, and mouth. The poisonous storm of excrement knocked the Indian onto his ass and his eyes were aflame.

The diarrhea must have compressed one of Weed’s spinal disks while inside him because once it flew out he was able to move, albeit with pain. Speaking of pain, his seeping asshole was afire as he pulled his pants back up. The shitfaced Indian began to run blind and puffed an airy fart as Weed stretched out his long arm, grasping the two spirit’s shoulder.

If you have any sense of the science of physics, you would know that a long-strung pendulum is capable of exerting a serious amount of force at the extent of its range. Big Weed swung his free hand with all he had and missed the native’s head. As he was stumbling, the creature sprang on Weed’s back and began humping tempestuously until Weed felt the wetness of precum from the erect dick smearing across his lower back where his shirt had raised.

The thing that worked out pretty well with Big Weed’s long arms is that he could reach any point on his back if it itched. He reached back and took the Indian by the balls and, oh, how the sick bastard squealed as he dropped to the ground. Weed kept adding pressure until there was a pop and the native passed out sweetly onto the prairie grass.

And thus the sacrifice Big Weed had planned all along was complete. He put the ugly fetish into what remained of the Indian. Its eyes started to bleed and he heard a voice:

“What is your desire? What are you willing to render to God?”

Back at the Campsite

“Okay,” said Harry, “let’s finish off these three other butt fags.”

“Wait, wait,” said Fat Will Slim, and he took his meth pipe out of his pocket. “I got some premium methamphetamine.”

They all came around and took a nice meth hit, their mouths tasting good, like orange juice and pennies and deep earth crystals.

“Hands off, bitch,” said Jack to the Indian fairy, slapping his hand away. “This isn’t a peace pipe.”

“Yeah,” said Slim, “it’s a fucking slaughter pipe.”

The octoroon took a hit and started making clicking sounds.

Jack walked over and slapped the piss out of Fat Will and said, “My grandson Bob showed me this shit on the internet. It was on YouTube.”

“YouTube?” said Harry. “Hell.”

“Yeah,” said Jack. “They really enforce the First Amendment on there. They’ll literally let anything be posted on it because it is against the First Amendment protections to ban stuff, and they never take anything down no matter how bad it is.”

“It’s called,” said Fat Will, who lifted his lard leg and kicked Jack to the ground, “freedom of speech.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” said Jack with his face full of gravel. He slapped the ground. “You see, that is exactly what it goddamn is.” He leapt up like a squirrel and tore out one of the old tires that had flowers planted in it in front of the cabin. “Get those out, Harry and Will,” he said and the others lifted the tires and knocked the soil out of them by trying to bounce them as high as they could.

“Before the white man arrived on this continent,” said Fat Will, “it was nothing but a sea of queer Injuns from coast to coast, fucking in a great giant heap as far as the eye could see. The great herd of buffaloes were nothing compared to the great herd of queer Injuns. I’ve heard tales of men killing 10,000 in one go.

“But nowadays, you’ve got to savor it a little more,” he said, looking at the ur-queers.

“My great-great-great-grandpappy Morton was part of a company of men hand-selected and ordered by President James Madison himself to go on a two spirit extermination tour. The men started in Massachusetts and marched to the California Territory. For 15 months and 3,500 miles, they killed and burned the two spirits. So great were the numbers of dead smoldering queers that the skies turned black. Their ashes blew in clouds that blocked out the sun. Their kind was scattered to the wind.

“Now that,” he said, “is what I call manifest destiny.”

To punctuate the sentiment, he took a giant blast of the deep earth crystals and let loose a wet fart that smelled of wolverine anal glands.

“Hehehehehaaaaa,” giggled one of the forest fairies. Big Will put all of his 500 pounds into a massive uppercut that made the Indian’s head snap violently back.

“Grab that one,” said Big Will, pointing to the most feminine of the three braves, whose hair was done up in a pink braid on an otherwise shaved head. “Hold him down. Get his pants off.”

They pinned the pink-braided pansy to the rocky soil. Big Will took the hydration pouch from his backpack, uncoiled the hose, removed the suction tip, and stuck the clear tube into the Indian’s asshole. He then grabbed the bitch-slapped brave, got him in a headlock, and slit his throat. Big Will directed the blood into the top of the bladder. The blood coiled down into the Indian’s anus. He gave a mild shudder and giggled.

“Now bring that one over,” he said. The men grabbed the remaining brave in a half-nelson. “Now,” he said, “I’ll show you what freedom of speech is all about.”

The fat fucker hammered the Indian’s jaw until it hung by a strip of flesh off his face. Big Will ripped off the jawbone and used it to bash the Indian over the head, with the force of Samson killing a thousand men with the jawbone of an ass.

“With the jawbone of a queer, I have piled them into heaps. With the jawbone of a queer, I have slain a thousand men,” said Big Will, quoting Judges.

He positioned the de-jawboned Indian in front of the brave receiving a blood enema. Removing the hose, the diarrhea shot straight through the gaping maw and down his companion’s throat. The jawbone-less Indian gurgled and choked in the blood and feces, making a gushing sound from Earth’s primordial ooze, and dropped dead.

The three white old men then put the tires over the two spirits’ heads, filled the insides with gasoline, and set them on fire.

“To the Nobel Peace Prize winner Nelson Mandela,” said Jack.

The three other men whose heads weren’t melting with flames said, “To Nelson Mandela.”

The octoroon clicked.

“I bet you twenty bucks, Weed, that I can jump over the tallest fire fairy,” said Harry, after smoking more methamphetamine.

Only one of the three two spirits was on his feet and was spinning, but the tire was stuck to him. There was no chance of getting it off. Harry was shaking on the bet when, behind them, the chief started acting retarded.

Harry ran over to him and said, “Oh, you better not be doing a curse.”

“Don’t let that motherfucker hex us,” said Jack. “The moon is full!”

“It’s a goddamn blood moon, for fuck’s sake!” said Big Will.

When they turned to look at the moon, there was a snap. Turning around, they saw chief with his arms held out to the sides in mindboggling excellence. With the heart of a gallant wolflord, the chief slapped his white peers the fuck out of the way and burst with astonishing speed from the campsite to the top of an Indian burial mound.

The octoroon, still standing in the same place, clicked his tongue.

The chief started screaming some shit. The blood moon rained down on him.

“It’s a spell, by Christ!” said Big Will.

And from out of the effervescent sky flew the owl to hover above the chief’s upraised arms. It was like a reversed scene of Jesus receiving the white dove descending through the clouds on that holy day. But instead of receiving the Holy Ghost, the chief began shaking like an epileptic, his boner intensifying as the plague of a million demonic entities swirled through his body and raped his soul with the cock of a Hell steed.

Immediately, his form began pulsing with a sorry ass glow until the Indian morphed into a grinning David M.J. Aurine, who began thrusting his devilish new horse cock into the night until all of the stars twinkled a pretty red. Aurine fucked the entirety of the night until an odor like that of a billion rotting sperm whales’ pussies filled the lungs of every living creature and made them wish they were instead basting their noses with the fermented yeast of Big Will’s fat folds.

“HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” came the great shout of the red man Aurine, and he began cumming rancid blood as the Mephistophelian owl flew toward the aged Marlboro Reds.

“Run!” said Weed. “It’s coming to rape us!”

Harry, Jack, and the lardass began to flee, when, from out of the wilderness, Big Weed met them and said, “Boys, what are you doing? Where on Earth are you running to?”

“It’s the fucking Devil!” hollered Harry.

“And where is Chris?” asked Weed.

They all turned and saw the octoroon leaping up into the air with his legs straight as a grizzly’s dick.

“Why, boys,” said Big Weed, “don’t you see? This man has felt the pride of his Congolese race! Do you hear it?” The men pointed their ears at Chris. “I have heard the voice of God in the prairie and he told me to accept this here octoroon into our fold. Blood is only blood, but the bonds of God and his gift of love transcends everything!”

Instantly, the music from the Lion King began to fill the landscape as the four men ran over to their brother who was leaping higher and higher. The owl was flying close as the Circle of Life intensified and the air’s smell changed to the glorious winds of the Serengeti.

As their African friend leaped higher and higher, the four old boys huddled behind him with arms over each other’s shoulders and Jack began to sing, “When it’s love you give.” Harry replied, “I’ll be a man of good faith.” Jack, “Then in love you live.” Harry, “I’ll make a stand, I won’t break.” And all together:

I’ll be the rock you can build on,

Be there when you’re old,

To have and to hold.

And when the owl was just about to reach them, the octoroon leaped thirty feet into the air, shouted, “Praise the Lord!”, and the incredible winged creature turned in its flight and flew headstrong toward Chief Aurine, who had been constantly blood orgasming. As the owl soared up on a sacred wind, it spread its angelic wings for all to witness before it flew down, tore the satanic dick off in its keen talons, and disappeared in a puff of white smoke when it hit the ground.

The chief flashed back into his true Native American form again and looked down. He smiled when seeing that he had, instead of a male dick, the most beautiful pussy that had ever existed since the death of Eve. The blood still poured from it profusely as the old chief wept tears of joy.

The chief was sobbing when, from his sanctified transsexual womb, a small head appeared in the hole of his vagina. And from that sacred place fell a dwarf infant onto the peak of the Indian burial mound. After severing the umbilical cord with his teeth, the Chief fell backwards, breaking his neck as he tumbled down the precipice and died with a perfect smile on his lipsticked lips.

The five men ran with Godspeed over to behold the newly birthed dwarf child. Its very large head and much tinier body were the loveliest things the men had ever seen in their lives. They passed the adorable tot around, wanting to hug it more tightly than anything in the world until the infant stopped sobbing and the eye of God, like a camera, panned out slowly as the octoroon held the infant up as high as he could.

The eye continued to back away as the forms below became smaller and smaller and the men sang not above a whisper, “Let’s make it all for one and all for love,” as the child began to make a sound very similar to that of every child, but with a slight and vibrant difference.

The infant newborn cooed:

“JU JU!”

It was over. They had won.


For all installments of “Win,” click here.

Previous installments:

  1. Part 1