Chinese Children

In our western media the kind of preposterous comments made on how Chinese look upon their progeny have somehow derailed logical thinking and many westerners truly believe that Chinese actually get an abortion rather than produce a female child and that dozens of Chinese children labor around heavy machinery to produce shoes and i-Phones for our consumerist greed.

First of all, although traditionally male children are considered more of a blessing than female children, the Chinese society is rapidly changing and actually getting pregnant under today’s stresses is quite a challenge, so whether a Chinese woman is blessed with a boy or a girl, the joy is pretty much the same. For the Chinese contemporary family, the child is literally the center of the world.

In case you are intrigued, the reason behind preferring boys comes from a cultural habit which is dying out even in remote countryside areas. According to this, the girl marries a man from a different village and moves with him and his family, whereas the male child remains in the village as an adult and therefore is responsible to look after his parents when they grow old. Needless to explain why this does not work any longer.

Female progenies are regarded as princesses here in China. Parents flip flop to provide them the cutest pinky dresses, the nicest toys, private language tutors to teach them drawing, English, music and so on.  A vast majority of girls follows up a higher education and some of them hold managerial positions in multinational or Chinese companies. The niche of the richest people in China is actually largely made up by women.

As for child labor, we should look more closely in our own backyards. It is not uncommon for people to work in coal mines in New Zealand, for example, when they are only seventeen. In China, I have only heard of seventeen year olds being hired by a subsidiary of Apple. I have not heard of Chinese youngsters working in mines.

Most of these young people who find temporary work by the conveyor belt making gadgets, come from far away provinces and  are lured with promises of salary and careers, promises that almost never materialize. Instead of decent working hours, they are submitted to a tight schedule with almost no weekends off which can be best described as hard labor. For this, they receive a meager pay. The Chinese subsidiary has no real power to adjust the schedule of its employees and hiring more people would mean only decreasing the salary of each individual worker even more. It is Apple who sets the deadlines and controls production rate. However, the Chinese subsidiary could at least make sure the workers are paid on time. This does not always happen. The abusive work hours and delays in receiving salary led many young workers to take desperate measures such as suicide. Although the situation had been publicized in China and worldwide, Apple is yet to operate changes on their deadline requirements and production numbers.

A few weeks ago we had news here in China about a little girl who ventured on a construction site and got deadly injured by a heavy vehicle. Her parents looked and felt devastated, but it was not only the parents who showed grief, the girl’s extended family showed up, uncles, aunts and even neighbors. Today there was a news about a mother who jumped in front of a car to protect her boy against the imminent blow of the crash. The mother died, the boy survived. Not all is glorious in China, but thinking that it is only the Chinese who use propaganda to set political agendas, is ridiculous. With a reasonable mind, one cannot see such dedicated parents pushing their children into hard labor, not to mention neglecting them.


Charlie and the Poo Factory

I don’t read fashion magazines because I learn things I don’t want to learn. Today I had to search for a text to give my English class students on Friday. Now, what do Chinese love to read about? Well, two things in this order: money and fashion. This is how I opened Vogue, the UK edition. As a Sons of Anarchy watcher, the image of Charlie Hunnam (Jax in the series) gave me a tingle in my fingertips. But what, oh, what do I read there? Oh, my Lordie, to paraphrase a close friend of mine, the stars of the film version of Fifty Shades of Grey were finally announced – roles that had caused months of speculation. Dakota Johnson and Charlie Hunnam are taking the leads of Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey.


My views on 50 Shades of Grey are well known to the people who know me/read me, but I take the liberty to sum them up here for those who are not particularly familiar with my line of thinking. I do believe 50 Shades is a book which in order to be allowed in America had to offer characters of legal age, thus the “innocent” virgin had to be 21 which is the legal age in which an author can put his character through explicit sex scenes and still be allowed on Amazon and other American Distribution websites. In order for the character to be believable and the cliché to work (the untouched virgin, who has no idea about the universe between her legs, who has never even attempted to stick a finger in there, ah!) she should have been younger, but since the legal age in America is 21, the absolute virginity at 21 deprives the girl of what’s called “being believable.” But it’s like with everything else from zombies to porn: let’s just enjoy, not judge. Or as Mike (Teine) the main character in my latest novel puts it in his blunt manner when he talks romance: “if someone had rammed a rubber cock deep into your balloon knot, making you puke yourself to oblivion, would you call that less of a love-making than, say, a roll in the hay under the moonlight?”

As a rule, I have no problem with sex in literature. Great books such as American Psycho feature very explicit sex scenes. These being said, sex, if not used carefully, is an idiocy. I tried hard, very hard to read the book from back to back, but I failed. It’s so badly written, so boooring and blend and for fat housewives in love with the idea of being locked in the basement while bounded to a fucking machine that my mind could simply not cope with it and rather dropped it after a few pages.

However, and some of you might be surprised with my stoicism and ultimately masochism, I went through it in a random manner. Allow me the privilege of not dying an ignorant to the things en vogue. I even have a favourite passage. That is when Mr. Grey removes Anastasia’s (what a porn name, isn’t it? Anastasia Steele, especially Steele, well fucking done!) tampon by hand. Hang on a minute, here. Do I think shagging while menstruating is a taboo thing? Who cares as long as it happens, right? Great that someone put it in literature. Let us not fake here, some men have no issues with it and us girls, even the conventional of us, often dream of a filthy animal like that to bone us dry. But really, removing the tampon as a man is a bit… demising.

Maybe my definition of a man is very different from what’s fashionable these days, but I just know that a macho would never ever get near my tampon, used or unused. My husband’s face grimaces each time we are at the supermarket and I remind him I forgot to buy tampons. Maybe because he’s a rough and tough type of dude, but you know what? I’d rather be with a man-man than a half-man who knows the difference between the regular OBs and the silky type. And Mr. Grey is supposed to be a man-man.

As a connoisseur of BDSM – I say it with pride, yes, I did spank asses, I enjoyed immensely putting needles in nipples and hot wax on genitals: it was fun and always consensual – I know that blood is a fetish and it’s the submissive man or woman who enjoys the sight/feel/taste of the partner’s menstrual blood. Now, the border between dominant and submissive when it comes to fetish, might not be as clear as you think, nevertheless, Mr. Grey is a dominant, right?

There is much discordance in the structure of the characters; many things simply do not work when it comes to this book, but we live in a dumb world, where people refuse to use their brains and require instant gratification. For wanking material, it’s not bad, but any wanking material erotica book out there will do when you are horny enough. Does 50 Shades provide the twist needed to make this genuine literature? I do not think so. I think the only quality of this book is actually being shameless. There is courage in shamelessness, I agree.

Now, what do I think of Charlie Hunnam? Well, I’ve seen Charlie the first time in Cold Mountain, a film shot in Romania, very close to my hometown, Brasov. I didn’t like his character in the film – who could? – but his interpretation was remarkable. These days he’s playing Jax. He is amazing and I’m so sad he is yet to be nominated for an Emmy award. I have rarely seen a better “Hamlet” and Charlie shows in Jax a lot of that Shakespearean tension and interior struggle.

But do I think Charlie is sexy? Do I think Jax is sexy? There’s a line between sexy and beautiful. Again, I’m a complicated person, I know. I do find Charlie, the actor, a beautiful example of a man. I find Jax, the character, a wicked, handsome family man with a criminal background. But I would not like to have sex with Jax or Charlie, for that matter. This is perhaps because when I was in the 8th grade, we had a chain of suicides in our school. All who hurried to the other side too soon were Kurt Cobain look-alike kids: all were artistic types, all had blonde hair and blue eyes, tartan shirts and leather jackets. I guess, the sadness that came with the death of my colleagues, marked me for life and when I see someone looking the way Charlie did when he started to play Jax, I get a squeeze in my chest. Sadness is not great for sex. I am attracted by rougher, brunette types, the funnier, the better. I would very much hit Tig if I met him and I was single at the time, to answer the question in a divergent way. As a matter of fact, I’ve recently met a Tig type, even the looks seemed to fit and I remained virtuous in an otherwise sexually charged situation… But I’d still do Tig if I wasn’t married. Does this mean I fantasize sleeping with Kim Coates who plays him? No, I don’t. Kim Coates is a very different person from the character he is playing. But do I find Kim Coates sexy? Actually, yes. I told you I was complicated.

This being said, I can understand for an actor, doing a sexual role is a boost in career. However, I don’t dare imagining how bad the film is going to be given the fact the book is such a fiasco. I am also very glad not to be on Sons of Anarchy fan groups any longer. The verbal masturbation over there might cut my appetite for food and food happens to be one of my pleasures here in China.

(Source for the news:—andrea-casiraghi-wedding–lady-gaga-roundhouse-concert)

The Total Withdrawal into Oneself

I don’t know if I’m just tired or I’m battling an attack of depression – he he, maybe both – but I’m feeling less and less concerned with socializing all together. Social media bores me to death for the simple reason no conversation seems to ever lead to something more meaningful. Everything starts nicely and it ends… well, nowhere. The feeling of incompleteness leaves me pretty cold when it comes to it, so I’ve given up that. Meeting people in the flesh so to speak, gives me headaches and bouts of anger, followed by a long low. I’m wiser and older now so I don’t spend too much time analyzing the reasons why they have pissed me off – most often are facial expressions, gestures, something they’ve said without realizing – however, the sadness coming after socializing is still there.

A week ago I went to Shanghai to meet my “brother”. We are born the same day, same time, different year, therefore we’ve thought of each other as “brothers” although we are not related. We used to share a great deal of emotion and content. We were once very close friends. This time he pissed me off. I don’t wish to speak to him again after this meeting. There were some sweet and meaningful conversations between us, but he had grown into an atrocious bourgeois, selfish and lazy and I’m not at all that. I hate fashion, especially worshipping models, for example. I think actually modelling and the image of beauty inspired by models deprives our world of diversity and fun, makes women feel like witches for looking normal or healthy and in general, it expresses a consumerist, superficial approach to life that is everything that’s wrong with the Western way of life. Even worse, we imprint this falsity on nations for whom beauty has different standards and we pretend our measure of it is universal.

My “brother” didn’t like to enter disputes with me, maybe because he was afraid to admit to being a loser. Besides, fashion is like religion: it’s a matter of belief, not arguments. He had the same impression about “global warming.” I told him, but darling, there is no such thing as “global warming”, it is “global climate change”, but he still wouldn’t believe there was anything wrong with the way we live and the pressures we put on our fragile environment. As long as we have skinny tall sticks to give us those absent stare-downs, everything is fine: cheerio and carry on!

But anyway, people like my “brother” are more and more numerous. They go round and round their problems and they never dare to put the finger on the cause. Nooo, they rather cover the mess under the mask of: “don’t offend me! I’m so delicate and sensitive.” I don’t buy “sensitive” people. I actually loathe “sensitive” people. They think they can sway me by acting the way they do, but they don’t and because they don’t they can’t win. I can’t win either, because this is a no-win game. In conclusion, we simply withdraw from one another. There is no point to discuss with the kind of people I’m talking about. I’m not a fan of weather talk, so…

I have a new friend, a Japanese professional. He is weird and sensitive, but in a weird way, not trying to be as superficial as possible. Unlike my “brother” who only reads books by famous people, hoping some of their glory would reflect on him, my Japanese buddy K. reads only books by first-time authors, maybe one-time authors. Most of them are crap, or as he puts it: sub-standard, but he still enjoys the thrill of venturing into the mind of someone entirely new and unknown and he’s not afraid some of that anonymity might reflect on him.

Some say we should not think when we’re reading a book. They claim when we think, we spoil the fun. If we watch a TV show, we should enjoy rather than think about the slips in concordances, the values, the characters’ cohesion, etc. We should revert to our early teen if not childish minds when lions could talk and bad witches were able to turn little boys into frogs. When we watch The Walking Dead, for example, we should not question how the hell is the main character waking up alive and well after being deprived of nutrients (food, water, perfusions) for probably more than a week – that’s about how long it takes cut roses to dry if placed in a vase in regular tap water. It could have been more, the waking up is a very unclear moment. Unfortunately, it is a scientific fact a person cannot live for more than three days without drinking water (or having a perfusion – this, in particular, runs out in a matter of hours, depending how fast the nurse sets the droplet to go. We should not think how the hell those zombies are decomposing and decomposition ALWAYS happens because bacteria break down the tissue and skin and yet, contrary to all odds and the fact that the action takes place under a blazing Georgian sun, no blow flies, carrion beetles and other corpse-feeding insects seem to feel the bacteria liquefying the flesh. No such insect feels the urge to deposit eggs and thus ensure the next generation of decay-loving bugs.

Why should we think? If we can have fun, we don’t need to think at all. Let’s be children all our lives! Let’s be innocent babies and live in the perpetual bliss! Let’s never grow old: maybe this is actually better than living on Prozac! But you know, “innocent” children can be a pain in the ass at times and whoever read Lord of the Flies can easily figure out what I mean by it.

I have a new apartment and I’m discovering the pleasures of confining myself to it. Besides, for some obscure Chinese logic reason (hey! Chinese logic has nothing to do with logic, about it, in another article, I promise) some people came today and deprived me of the nice view provided by the schools of goldfishes and other colorful types of aquatic dwellers populating the artificial ponds bellow our blocks of flats. They have removed all fishes and drained the water away. My only joy is the fact that having no fishes means no children either. I just cannot stand children anymore: running, noisy, screaming, distracting, distracting, distracting. Having children around is almost as bad for writing as being confined in a large hotel in the middle of winter, in the middle of nowhere, The Shinning style. But I fear the ponds will go the same way the swimming pool is going. The management informed me this summer was the last in which the swimming pool remained functional. Things are about to change. Well, I still live in a 5 stars apartment which would cost me an arm and a leg if I were in New York or London. I still have custom made furniture and stylish neutral tone decorations and a niche in the wall which lights up blinking blue and red and this is where I have an aquarium filled with translucent jellyfishes floating around. And because I have all of these I am inclined at spending more time inside than outside. At this point, I have no intention to go Fight Club again and wish I had met Tyler Durden to teach me how to make stuff that explodes.

My big withdrawal into myself coincides with this country’s withdrawal into itself. We have different reasons, of course, I mean, China and I. The country withdraws to revert to a child-like state. I withdraw because people reverting to a child-like state make me sick to the stomach. A year ago I could download Adobe Reader in English, on the mainland. Six months ago I could still do this. Now, a cartoon policeman pops up showing me the index finger in the manner of Super-nanny. At work even academic sites such as the website of the Otago Polytechnic are blocked. I would not dare to mention things like Tumblr, WordPress, Facebook, etc. For now, I’m able to evade via VPN, but I expect them to ban all English content soon, make an Intranet out of the Internet, just like in North Korea. It must be the Snowden revelations that sprouted this latest craze. I don’t know, I’m guessing. Most of the content is still available if I use Baidu, which is cleaned of “imperialist” comments and criticism.

Let’s be children, folks! Let’s be innocent angels, let’s live in a world where the lion can talk and the zombies decompose without the need of maggots! Take a picture, fly a kite. Happy, happy, happy, hello kitty plus hearts plus bling-bling stars!

Fuck From 8 or Is “Predatory”

I wonder when they actually make pedophilia legal business in the UK. I mean there are some who argue having sex with children is okay since this generation is more precocious and mind opened than the previous ones, so what’s the fuss, right? We have a whole bunch of morons and limp dick wankers targeting women on twitter and elsewhere, just because they claim abuse victims are responsible for what is being served to them by their abusers. And this is a “civilized” society, right?
I wonder what sane man (or woman) can engage in sexual conduct with someone under the age of consent (even if they “looked older” as the prosecutor put it in this case, even if they act “sluttish” and so on and so forth) because as human beings we are born and raised to protect children and not to have children with children. Such deviance is a kind of fetish and as with any fetish it is a personal preference or predilection, something the person engaging in the fetish action is perfectly aware of when he engages in satisfying his fetish need. Due to the complexity of a developing human personality, the cultural taboos, the health issues related to having sex with an adult at a very early age, last but not least, the fragility and immaturity of thought at such an age, the victim should not be held accountable. Instead, someone deliberately seeking and having sex with a twelve or a thirteen years old kid should not be seen as just making a mistake (this is not like a car crash: oups, she jumped in front of me) but as actually engaging in a calculated and callous act. I have some experience in this since I worked with abused people for a while and based on my experience and research in the matter (among other things, almost all my novels treat the subject) not all pedophiles are psychopaths or sociopaths, for that matter, although some are legally insane.
Based on the principle held high by this British court, if someone is suicidal and his or her problems are amusing us or are giving us an erection (case by case) we should encourage and aid that person in actually jumping off the roof. What the heck! So if I understand correctly, if someone has sex with an adult at an age smaller than eight years old, the victims might not be tagged as predatory, although you never know. I guess this horrific turd, Neil Wilson – not only he rapes children, but he apparently has a penchant for horses and dogs too – will have to keep it down for two years, in the sense that this suspended penalty forces him to broaden his horizons. We might find him doing charity in South Africa, Guatemala, Bolivia, Mexico, India, Myanmar, Cambodia, the Philippines and so many other good playgrounds. Remember that film with Nicholas Cage where gents ordered for “puppies” and they were served according to preference: white, chocolate or yellow; they don’t play that too often, do they? The Hindu cows great masses of people would be shocked. They need love stories and Oprah crying discrimination, because – oh, dear, oh dear – she couldn’t shop for a purse costing the annual salary of some of these “entertainment-addicts .” Yeah. It’s great!

After this year’s Cannes festival, I expect the age of consent to be set for 12 years old in Europe. Yeah, I think it’s a trend. I mean look at how women are portrayed in films and TV shows nowadays. We have the top bitches who have been through everything and survived (as if survival is everything and there’s nothing more to expect or long for as a human being than survive like an animal that’s not self-reflexive. Then we have the “broads” who are generally young women and they can get raped, beaten, talked badly, pushed around, burnt in pits. I see a trend and since this economic crisis seems without end, the bestial features of mankind are emerging. I don’t know how effective would it be for our future as a species to start fucking our children, but apparently in the UK they think there’s no reason for concern as long as they look older. Put some makeup on and carry on! My next question is when do they legalize pedophilia. I reckon they’re working on it. Mark my words.

Sons of Anarchy Fanfic Mr. Doomsday Is Striking Again

It’s been a long time since I started this story, but hell, I intend to finish it. Here is a new chapter for all SoA fans. If you’re familiar to the story, jump to chapter 3 directly. If not, read it all.

What’s the story about:
Toric (Mr. Doomsday) brings havoc upon the Club. In the meanwhile, Tig’s guilt for Dawn’s death finds strange ways of expression and Jax struggles to keep the raft afloat. Tara is facing some serious time behind bars and Pope’s replacement is still looking for answers after the big boss’s death.

Comments highly appreciated.

Perfectly Mad and Zombie on Drugs

The following fragment is extracted from my new book The Zombie Hunter. This work is protected by copyright. All rights reserved.

ATTENTION! If you are easily offended, you are underage or you do not read/enjoy dark themes associated with explicit sexuality and use of drugs, please do not read past this point.

MY MEDICAL CABINET contains ordered neatly on glass shelves, the following drugs packed and tagged in plastic cylindrical recipients: Xanax, Rohypnol, Zyprexa, Prazosin, Gaviscon, Purified Fish Oil, Aspirin, Glucosamine & Chondroitin Osteo Bi-Flex, Multi-minerals, Calcium + vitamin D, Vitamin C supplement made from organic lemons, Japanese garlic supplement, collagen capsules, coenzyme Q 10 supplement, Zetia and another three boxes tagged red, blue and green, Big Boobs told me to take one of each a day. Every Friday I go back to base where they give me an injection. They say that keeps me calm. They say: “you don’t want to be freaked out all the time, do you?”

By the bed, I have some crack cocaine in an envelope stashed inside the base of the lamp. Every now and again, I buy meth from a fellow called Mongo. He used to be in an MC, but they kicked him out, nobody knows why. I have his shit stashed inside the soles of my boots.

Jay, the nerd from the NSA likes meth. Yeah, we worked together in Mexico. Yeah, they brought him over, because he was in this fusion team from the beginning. He loves doing meth with me, since he says I’m one of those who listen. We always end up doing too much and then he talks a lot without making any sense. Jay is confused, more than that: he wants to become a woman in a distant future. See? I was right. At home he puts on a blonde wig and his girlfriend’s tight black dress and a pair of high heel platforms. I admitted I enjoyed transsexual sex, especially when he-she happens to be Hispanic or otherwise nicely tanned and is in a scene where he-she takes it from two dudes at the same time. This is why Jay’s sending me gigabytes of tranny porn every day. A hot, large breasted penis slinging bitch rammed by two dudes at once would have made me go gaga two years ago. These days it doesn’t mean much. I can barely get a hard on watching some of that. Of course, I still enjoy it, but the passion is gone, you know, because the passion went somewhere else.

There is no doubt in my head the nerd has been placed with me just to make sure I grow dumber by the day and take my pills. “The guys” know what I like, trannies included. However, I know myself better and they might be in for a surprise.

It worries me that I feel very sick, I’d say I’m on the brink of physical collapse. After the injections, my blood vessels burst and I get blue all over the place. After the red pill I nauseate and sometimes spend my afternoons puking with a wet towel tied around my head. After the green pill I’m full of excitement and energy, my heart is racing and I need to eat a lot, proteins in particular. I developed a genuine craving for raw beef meat, the bloodier the better. After the blue pill I need to sleep and I’m mellow, without being able to become sentimental. I’m mostly slow, just slow.

They keep repeating to me how mentally ill I am and how they need to run more tests to improve treatment. I’ve actually started using the cocaine and the meth to counter the effects of these enigmatic substances they force me to take. In Europe I would have never made such a serious shit out of this, but here where I’m monitored even during sleep, here I must. It is the duty of any prisoner to escape any way that he can and this is my way. I know “the guys” are killing me in a manner that is both callous and systematic. What I am can be best described as a human lab test animal.

The Agency provided me with a small one bed apartment where everything from the floors to the walls and the furniture is a clean white. One morning I cut myself and I sprayed some blood on the kitchen wall. I did it on purpose. When I came back from my daily stroll, the stain had been removed and the wall repainted. It smelt like fresh paint when I got my nose closer to it and when I touched it it was still wet under my fingertips. This is how I know the blood was there, and I wasn’t hallucinating or imagining things. Plus, I had a cut on my finger.

Otherwise they are providing me with an illusion of freedom. I can watch TV, navigate the Internet and masturbate as much as I please. Nowadays I’m not so keen on hookers. As I said, the act itself has lost its appeal a long time ago. They send me a monthly allowance straight into my bank account, allowance I use to buy meat and drugs. I have almost half a cow in my fridge, because I go through half a cow in a couple of days.

The other morning, after my injection, I didn’t return straight home. We headed back to DC and then I told Bernstein to drop me next to the park, because I felt like going for a walk. As soon as he vanished I changed course and walked and walked without a purpose and then there was this billboard featuring a beautiful Asian woman, nearly naked, striking a twisted pose with a shoulder popping out and one knee bent towards the other. It said Givency underneath. The face looked familiar so I came nearer, but as I traced the contours of her elongated, smooth cheeks I recognized Lily. I waited there like an idiot, gazing at her empty eyes staring down at me, the drug addict, the wreck, the remorseful, the zombie and a black man, who pretended to be a blind beggar, put a hand on my shoulder and said:

“Damned fine woman!”

Above us, the heavens opened and a cold drizzle drenched us both enwrapped by the etheric feel of the poster-ads fashion chicks. I told him:

“Not this one. Her sister, man.”

My black man must have gone a long time when I realized I was wet and shivering, the rain sticking the clothes to my skin. For a while I stood there reflecting upon the havoc I was and where I drew my Pearl and I got the impression none of this was real, as in life, the pavement, the rain, the billboard and certainly not that beggar. Maybe it is as Pearl used to think. Maybe that Matrix film was more real than what we thought was real.

I grabbed a taxi back to my apartment and the radio played some electro pop song, I think it was Helena Beat by Foster the People. The Xanax I gobbled with a bit of coca cola light, just before catching the ride was now making the face of the taxi driver melt into the city scape. Then by chance, I turned my head to the window and I thought I saw Pearl walking down the boulevard. Such occurrences are impossible, so unless we transgressed in a parallel universe, it must have been the drugs. But there she was, in her pink, short dress with a beady skull on the back and an inscription: Dia de los Muertos. The socks were up over her knees, black and shiny. She had spiky heel platform shoes and a pearl bracelet. Her hair was tied in a high pony tail which moved in the manner of a pendulum tongue. Man, she could walk those heels!

I shouted to the driver to pull over. He pissed me off because he reacted in slow motion. Pearl! Pearl! Wait! Pearl! Just as I started running ahead waving through the row of Hindu cows populating the street, Pearl vanished like a bubble of soap. God damn it, man! If that idiot had pulled over when I told him to, I might have caught up with her. Unsurprisingly, the idiot hung on for me, since I had been yet to pay for the ride.

He told me in a dense, foreign accent:

“Mate, yeaw’re bluding.”

Yeah, today is Friday, I thought. I went:


“Yeaw’re bluding. Fuck, aye?”

This motherfucker was pissing me off big time with his notifications. I gazed upon my face in the rear view mirror and he was right. A tiny stream was coming from my eyes over my nose, a dark red, oily stream. My fingernails already looked about to fall off, darkened as if I had them hammered and now this. To make it worse, the cut I gave myself on the cheek a few days before, while tripping on crack, appeared badly infected and it dripped a yellowish liquid. With this in mind and a paper towel courtesy to the driver I went back in and said:

“Damned drugs… Drive!”

I had the bloke’s big black eyes snapping curious gazes at me all the way to my place. For the time being I was too dreamy-sleepy to argue about anything. Better make conversation. So I asked him:

“Where are ya from?”

He smirked then turned around to face me, offering me a close up of his round Polynesian features.

“Samoa, but I grew up un Neew Zuland.”

Ah yeah, it was a sign from above. Halleluiah!

I told him:

“When I lived in London, I had a friend from New Zealand. His name was Stevie. He was twenty two years old when he died. This is his legacy: gonna get my woman and go there one day. Gonna buy a house by the beach and we’re gonna live off the grid. Gonna buy me some sheep and a goat for company and meat and then I’m ‘a hit the SPCA and grab the ugliest dog in there and we’re gonna live happily ever after, man.”

He went:

“Oh, yeah, mate?”

“Hell, yeah, bro!”

Fuck me!

“Don’t geet me wrong, mate, but yeaw look like shut. Do yeaw want me to teek yeaw to a hosputal unsteed?”

No shit!

“Yeaw should teek ut uasy, mate.”

My ass!

“Watch the fuckin’ road!” I growled at him. He pissed me off, that nosy cunt!

In the water filtered light blurring my sight, I recalled the kid at the NSA and the blonde wig humped by two guys by the pool.

“I don’t want to be alone today,” I said.


“Don’t bother.”

Just before my block I changed my mind and gave him the nerd’s address instead.

The previous night I couldn’t help myself and I checked her blog. Pearl wrote:

“Hello world! I have a fly in my room. The poor thing goes round and round in circles unable to find a way out. I’ve decided to start feeding it. I give it mango juice and sometimes my own blood.”

Here I had to go over the sentence twice. This is an exercise I was going to repeat throughout the text. Damned nutcase! She’s cutting herself again.

She said:

“I’m going to tell you about purpose and direction. Let us say that when the nature or the divine blesses you with a certain gift, you already have a purpose. Or so you think. Your purpose is to use and perfect that gift for your benefit and the delight of the universe. The presence of the purpose gives you a clear direction. This is what happened to me.

Then I became twelve and before my body started the dramatic change I personally hated, someone came along and snatched that purpose from me. Now it wasn’t my purpose anymore, it was my mother’s pride, it was begging for attention from my father, it was my cousin’s pretext for picking me up from school and making me perform fellatio on the back seat. I soon lost direction and without direction I was a fly going round and round and round, trying to fill the void with goals like finishing my studies cum laudae or making a career change to become a great chef one day. But it caught up with me and then I grasped something needed to snap in order to be set free.

A while ago I stood before a man entirely stripped of clothing and dignity. It was my fault I got there the way I was, therefore I took our morning rituals as a rather religious act of humbleness and repentance. Yes, there can be something like this in situations of sin, uninhibited sexuality and utter filth.

I need to tell you about this man first, because he was no ordinary fellow. He was certainly crazy, but what mattered more to me was that dazzling mix of sadism and kindness. We’re talking about a man who carved out another man’s genitalia and slapped them into the open palm of my hand saying: for ya! We’re talking about a man who built explosive devices in the bathroom and had mined the whole house, starting from the basement up, just because I was selling my body for a living and part of it was his fault. We’re talking a man who kidnapped me from my kidnappers and then cut a deal to surrender me to my cousin who hired those men, only to change his mind after my long and arduous pleas and get me pregnant instead. I’ve never seen or heard of such harmonious mix of darkness and light, of stain and purity, apart from myths and tales, perhaps. Hence I ponder Teine must have been one genuine devil. No human being possesses that amount of cunning charm and cold blooded personality.

It comes as no surprise that this man was the first to succeed in breaking me so utterly when others had tried and failed. He fed this fly I was; he fed it honey and poison… Indeed, my hell could be sweet and bitterly addictive.

I took as much as I could until one day when I broke down the way a rusty engine breaks down and I couldn’t go any further. There were no options laid before me. I was dying, somewhere on the floor at his feet, insignificant, forgotten, blamed.

Consider it a paradox, but I would have never found my way out had it not been for a brutal act, so familiar to me since my twelve years of age. At the time it happened with Teine, a part of me had already understood what Teine was and what he had done before meeting me. I grasped the intricacies of his twisted soul ever since we lay together for the first time. What went on that first time eludes my consideration, not only due to the voracity of the act itself, but rather to the complex and treacherous nature of the whole affair. However, what took place that first time pales in comparison to what came next. I shall not enter details, but we had what’s called progression.

When you reach this stage of personal damnation, the purpose and direction are very distant metaphors. When you reach this stage, you simply bend over the filthy ceramic rim of a public toilet bowl, calling the safe word, although, without creating a serious fuss over being ignored. You bend there, devoted and desperate as you wait to be split open. There is no lube, no baby oil to ease the pain, no butter either, just spit, thick spit and a tremor of rage. It might come as a shock to learn just how amazing the moment was. No sex act has the capacity to reach quite that same blissful mix of pleasure, pain, and endorphins. No drug is stronger than what I experienced then with my face levitating above that shit-place and his fingers stripped of his bad boy biker gang rings – those rings rarely came off, by the way – digging deep inside me, up to the knuckles and beyond. Between killing me and giving me the orgasm of a lifetime, Teine pulled out decreeing I wasn’t even able to take a fist. Come down hard, little fly!

I was madly in love with Teine and I would have given everything – I didn’t have much left to begin with – to belong to him and only to him, body and mind. I would have sold my soul to the devil to hear him say: “yer mine, baby, and I, yers.” But then, while living with the physical disappointment of my physical limitations, I felt him going in the regular way and the motion itself, the carelessness of that monotonous movement, devastated me more than the wild thrusts. One hand squashed my wrist while another pushed my head with pace and determination and he slurred venomous words throughout, words that spoke about my death and how he would sit in the pub drinking his whiskey, listening to my tragic story in the news. Daughter of a French whore, he tagged me.

I don’t know if that was the flipping point or the moment when the tip of my nose dipped into that water. All I know is that a toilet paper holder had flown in his direction and that he didn’t fight back. All I know is that ten minutes later I was alone and my fists were bleeding from the repeated action of punching the mirror. All I know is that at some point I decided to give myself a battle scar and this is how I got this red claw mark on my right cheek.

A month after this incident, Teine and I married. Four months after, he sent me to die, a martyr in his failing revolution. Then he came to die with me. What I am now, sadly, still resembles this fly I’m keeping alive against the natural course of events. But I’m going and I should have been dead already. What I’m wondering is why? Where is the purpose?”

Jay opened the door without make-up and wig on. The girlfriend was not around either. Apparently she’d gone to Kentucky to visit her obese mother battling a foot infection. Have you any idea what Xanax mixed with meth does to you? Well, I use the combo, because I don’t come down as hard when I take my Zanny right before I do the meth. It messes with my heart rate, though, but I do hope something breaks in there and I get to end this crap life once and for all. Neah, it doesn’t happen. Are ya kiddin’ me? I’m strong as a bull, fuck me!

The nerd was listening to Cuban music. I said:

“I like that. Make it louder.”

We were both on the floor, high as kites on an azure sky and Jay rolled over me asking something silly:

“If I put that wig and big silicone tits, would you fuck me, Mike?”

He made me laugh so much, I pissed my pants.

“I’m too fuckin’ stoned to fuck anything, ya twisted thang!”

Jay opened my zipper and was playing with my numb cock.

“When I put that wig, I stare at myself in the mirror. I’d bang myself, man. I’d bang myself pretty hard,” he murmured close to my face, reminding me that psycho in the Silence of the Lambs.

I flipped him on one side and dashed into the bathroom to puke.

There, hunkered between the heavens and the abyss I was drifting over an ocean, I was shooting towards my dream like a rocket zooming on the target. The colors burnt my eyes. Fucking cars everywhere and people all around, passing at an accelerated pace. Pearl was waiting for me in her yellow temple. She was wearing a red dress buttoned up to her neck in the Chinese style of the nineteen thirties. A pink ribbon crossed her head, holding up her ebony hair. And then I read forgiveness in those anime greenish eyes, such sweet, soft melancholy my soul ached and my knees bent. But this was not why I collapsed at her bare feet, licking the dust off her tiny toes. She was running her delicate fingertips through the wild curls of my chestnut brown hair, laughing because my tongue tickled and a smell of orange blossoms was oozing from underneath her dress, straight into my nostrils. “Ralph Duval,” she giggled. “I have a whole list, Muffin,” I replied.

But Jay went on over my thoughts:

“Hey, Mike, I’m sorry, man. I just feel so lonely. Mike, I’m sorry, will you still be my friend?”

Jay was banging on the door with his bony fist.

“Hey, Mike, everything’s all right in there?”

Yeah, I was slightly decomposing, but otherwise, never felt better. And the latter, just because the Zanny was keeping me from crashing the whole way through. To make it scarier, the blood vessels in my dick were turning a putrid blue and the mushroom color seemed to have changed permanently from healthy pink to a rusty crimson.

“Mike, do you even like me or is it just because we do drugs?”

A reddish urine was filling the toilet bowl and Jay wanted to know if I liked him for real. You see how life is funny sometimes.

I cracked the door opened just a notch and I said:

“Hey, Jay, everything’s great, man, I’m just dying a little bit, but this ain’t the Zanny and the meth and all that other shit we’ve been doing. This is the injections I receive each Friday and the red, blue and green pills I’m taking one of each a day.”

Jay gazed at me perplex and then his face became a wrinkled, blood vessels crossed brain, but I went on:

“I’ve noticed changes, ya know… I have these eyes wide open nightmares, ya know, I’m seeing things.”

The brain shrugged, asking me:

“Hey, shall I put that blonde wig or what?”

I closed my eyes and opened them again to turn the brain into a face, but the trick didn’t work. Therefore, I continued:

“What’s happening to me, man? Ya oughtta know, they’re paying yer ass to keep me company.”

Jay’s brain exposed and tempting responded with a question:

“What do you really want, man?”

Jay knows what I want and this is something every man wants: I want to be free. I want my bitch to forgive me and hop behind me and then we’re gonna go to ride low for a while, to reconnect. That’s what I want. I want to be free and have me a bit of laughter with the wind in my face and I don’t want any goddamn Big Bro prying eyes and Friday injections and experiments and medical cabinets filled with plastic boxes filled with pills and supplements and no motherfucking Agency and fusion drills and Big Boobs shrinks telling me to hug the pain away. That’s what I want.

“You look like shit, man. I’m gonna call the guys,” the brain said.

Right then I opened the door fully and before he could escape, I put one arm around his neck and another over his mouth.

“Ya know what I want, bitch!”

And I squeezed till I heard a pop. He remained soft as a rag in my arms and I told him, just so that he got it right this time around:

“I have a goddamn list I’m gonna take care of. And when I’m done with it, I wanna let go and die, unless she tells me not to. That’s what I want.”

See, with all the meth and the fuck talk I forgot to take my green pill. What about the anti-psychotic, plus the sleeping aid, how about the Purified Fish Oil and the Aspirin to prevent heart failure, the Glucosamine & Chondroitin Osteo Bi-Flex for healthy joints and bones, the Multi-minerals for general tonus, the Vitamin C supplement made from organic lemons, the Japanese garlic supplement, the collagen capsules and coenzyme Q 10 supplements to fight free radicals and make me feel younger, the Zetia to inhibit bad cholesterol and keep my blood running smoothly and the Gaviscon against heartburn after the whopper hamburger I had that morning… See how I’m about to ignore all that and submit myself to health hazards? Ha-ha! I don’t know who’s crazier: me or them, thinking they could trick me.

Later on, I stole Mongo’s motorbike and headed straight for Bernstein’s place.

The Zombie Hunter, an original novel by Dianne Winter

Penis Size and Literary Art

How on earth do you go about describing someone’s cock without entering too many details that might risk turning the art into porn? You might argue there’s no need for such depictions, but what if the man’s size is essential to explaining some things related to his psychology? Well, this is what I came up with thus far, trying to keep everything in balance.

What you’re about to read further is a fragment from my new novel The Zombie Hunter. This work is protected by copyright. All rights reserved.

“I didn’t want to bring this up – perhaps you’ve already noticed – I gravitated around the subject, but now this is important because I’m going to tell you a little more about my crazy wife. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not blurting out these things because I want to brag. No, this is not a subject of cheers and pride, but rather one of ridicule and shame. I’m talking size.

You imagine huge it’s funny and I should be glad? I’m sorry you have this impression. Allow me to explain: this thing between my legs has made my life an ordeal ever since I was a teen, as for nowadays, it just makes it difficult. To give you a hint, my condoms have to be specially imported from the States. Porn stars use this, for the hack sake! I need to buy them in specialized shops and that’s an extra hassle. I can’t wear tight trousers unless I really want to trigger heart attacks in grannies strolling granddaughters and give fright chills to moms heading for the Sunday mass.

I’ve spent most of my youth hiding my “deformity.” Funny that, when I was five or six you couldn’t tell the difference between my piece and the other kids’ peckers, but by the time I reached ten, it was so obvious, I couldn’t even ride a bicycle without having people turning heads: “is that his shirt tucked in there?” That’s when I started wearing large trousers, really large, like three sizes larger.

My world came crashing down after an athletics competition in our school. Regrettably, I’ve made the mistake to shower right after and Mr Rogers, my sports teacher, noticed that thing hanging between my legs. His reaction is something I’ll never forget. He rolled his eyes like a fainting virgin then screamed his lungs out: “what is that?” then he made me stand there naked until he gathered the others. My science teacher, a man in his late fifties, removed a pair of rounded spectacles and carefully set them on his crooked nose, petting his gray mustache as he described it to the best of his scientific skill. “An abomination,” that’s how he put it. To amplify the horror, “the abomination” enjoyed the cool breeze coming from the half-open window and the careful visual inspection, so he grew and hardened, as if mocking those prying eyes. Even, our secretary, Miss Lauren Batesman, a woman the age of mom’s grandma, remained speechless. Mr Rogers shut his mouth with his hand, while the others frowned or turned their faces in disgust.

Later, Mister Guliaev – that was the name of my science teacher – read somewhere an article that said boys with uncontrollable penis growth had been retarded. That’s how I got my tag: the retard and his monster.

Then there were the rumors my mother had me with a black dude and by some miracle I came out white, although in our little part of Alaska, there weren’t any blacks at the time. The rumors attracted my father’s anger which redirected on me. The bruises on my ass and thighs didn’t heal at any one time before turning sixteen years of age, before my sheer body bulk and bitterness prevented my father from inflicting some more.

Perhaps I would have made a great porn star, but imagine having this size with everyday girls, some of whom have never had sex before. Imagine your girlfriend sobbing bitter tears even before attempting to put it in. These days I’m wiser when I pick my women. I’m also greatly experienced in what concerns the right kind of lube. Sometimes I use butter with the naughty ones. You’d be surprised how efficient butter is, compared to more commercial products out there, including baby oil. Hell, without the use of butter, Pearl would have never discovered the joys of getting it in her behind hole. And what a bond that tied between us!

That’s just another reason why I loved the MC. There, everybody thought what I’ve got was great and the broads, oh, man, they loved it! There was no need to hide and wearing tight jeans had been part of the fun. Such a starch contrast to my youth years.”