Short Story by Marc Lengfield

So there I was, I’d blown three-quarters of my face off with that shotgun Little Bob had assigned me to use during the upcoming Second American Revolution and I was pretty worried. It was a whole lot more serious than that time last August when I had accidentally shot myself in the head twice, once through the temple, once through the medulla oblongata. Then it was just two clean pistol holes. But naturally, fancying myself a writer, I had obtained a certain expertise regarding medical improvisation. So it was easy to bandage up my head back then and go on about my business. All it took was a half dozen pairs of pristine white socks pilfered from Little Bob’s vast collection, a little duct tape, and Presto!…good as new.

But this time I had really fucked up. I should never have looked down the barrel of that gun when I was cleaning it. But I heard a little voice in the gun saying Help! Help! Let me out! It must’ve been one of those gremlin thingy’s and the next thing I knew my face was gone. I was pretty upset about this…it wasn’t looking like the day was going down too well. And I suppose I should never gone about cleaning that gun wearing Little Bob’s strange hands. Well actually they were my hands and I had made them strange. I guess I need to tell you about strange hands. It’s simply a whack-off technique invented by Little Bob. You see Little Bob liked that Internet porn almost as much as he loved guns and white socks. He used to say things like "I don’t know about you guys…but if that computer goes on, my pants are coming off". It was getting out of hand, so to speak. One day he told me about something he called strange hands, also known among Internet porn aficionados as the stranger. This little stroke of genius consists of sitting on one’s hands until they get real numb. That way when you go to flogging the hog it feels like someone else’s hands are touching you. Now I had just finished said procedure in a highly ritualized scene involving some of the ladies from the Begonia Club wherein they were dressed up as lesbian cheetahs rendered willing via my superb masculine beauty. Subsequent to that little escapade I was busy cleaning my guns when I heard that little gremlin voice and … Blammo!…suddenly my head took on a rather amazing likeness to a starfish vomiting up an assortment of echinoderm stomachs and entrails.

Now I had been in worse situations like the time I got arrested for counterfeiting or the time I got accused of trying to murder the sky or the time I got arrested with my friends Germ Theory and Octavious for infecting those Wal-Mart executives with the dreams of dead children. So I knew there was a solution and I knew just the person to call-Edward the Afflicted. The Afflicted One could surely fix me up with the right doctor.

Hearing my urgency he sped right over and soon we were at the head doctor’s place of business. Doctor Dink took one look at my blown apart face and said…You gotta be kidding! That’s when he told me there was no hope of fixing my head, it just couldn’t be saved. So he offered to build me a head, a prosthetic head.

As the good doctor cleaned up my exploded starfish head, he explained a very complicated medical procedure involving a lot of molding, folding, and general tucking. I looked through the head catalog and selected my new head. Edward the Afflicted thought I should go for either the Genghis Khan or the Lafayette head but I was torn between the Brad Pitt and the Colin Ferrell models. Briefly I considered getting myself two-headed but that was cost prohibitive, so I ended up settling for the Colin Ferrell from the Ferrell with Scruff Beard series. Doctor Dink took several measurements, photographs and X-rays, and did a lot more stuff. He told me it would take a few weeks to build my new head so in the meantime I would need a temporary head. The Dink took us to the back room where he kept his supply of temporary heads but unfortunately there were only three human heads available. One was a Winston Churchill, one was a Marilyn Monroe, and one was an Immanuel Kant. Well naturally, I didn’t want any of those, though I did try on the Churchill and the Monroe. The Churchill wasn’t bad, but the phrase This was our finest hour! kept issuing from my Churchillian lips. I didn’t like that but I dug the top hat. The Monroe left me with the desire to have sex with men of power who would subsequently treat me shabbily. Clearly the Monroe wouldn’t do. And of course I didn’t even seriously consider the Kant. Just looking at it would’ve given me a headache had I actually had a head. My only other choices were non-human. I looked over a wide assortment of heads in this category. I tried the football head, the kitten heads, the Pomeranian head, the boot head, the woman’s breasts head. The kitten heads had the attractive feature of allowing the ears to be smoothed back granting one the appearance of a furred fetus and I thought that was nice. But the ears wouldn’t stay. The woman’s breasts head wasn’t bad either except Edward the Afflicted became stoutly afflicted as did the Dink himself. So that was out. Nothing seemed to be right. Suddenly I spied what I must have been looking for. It was superbly beautiful with such sensuous geometry. It was the head of a male mallard duck. Have you ever seen one my friend? It is quite perfect, quite splendid. The most wonderfully finely feathered iridescent green you can possibly imagine, so sleek and smooth, slightly phallic in appearance. I had always wanted such a head; I mean what normal man wouldn’t be proud to sport such smooth shining liquid emerald green? Yes it was the perfect temporary head.

So the sleek cool green mallard head was mounted on my neck and shoulders and I became irretrievably absorbed with myself. Oh dear reader how I primped and paraded back and forth in front of Doc Dink’s mirrors. Even the Afflicted One had to agree that I was truly a thing of beauty. Happily, we made arrangements to return in a few weeks when my Colin Ferrell head was ready. I strutted out with my shiny green head and my troubles began.

I had Edward the Afflicted drop me by my true love’s house. She was a lusty wench named Cleo of the Further Nile. We had met, fallen in love, and we got it on almost every day. Even the stars at night had to turn their blushing faces when we loved. I was a little nervous because I wasn’t sure how my Cleo would take to my new green mallard head. She was of course concerned about the gunshot thing but the new head thrilled her. She called me new love names like Duck Boy, Big Duck, and Green Boy as she swooned over her man’s new golden duckbill. She grew wet just stroking the new iridescent head, so smooth and silky, so finely feathered with its exquisite geometry. The first hint of trouble started when I bent to kiss my little Cleo with my golden bill. I don’t know what came over me; it was like the head had its own mallard mind. Suddenly my duckbill had bitten my love’s cute little nose. It scared her more than hurt her and it scared me too. I tried it again and my bill just rapid fired a couple of duck bites on her beak. It was not my doing I swear. In general I have a reputation for extremely sensitive and gentle lovemaking. Don’t get me wrong…I can bad-boy fuck like a stallion if my lass so desires and requires but left to my own moves I go slow cool and bring on the crescendo of the pudenda.

Anyway, Cleo was pretty wet and hot and she needed a hard Duck Boy. She told me to put on my cowboy suit and work her. So there I was wearing my chaps with my green iridescent head pointed right at her pussy. I love to eat pussy so that’s where I started. I got right down on my sweet baby’s muff as if I was heading into the holy land and…and…then…fucking disaster. My duckhead started quacking and attacking my Cleo’s downy fur like it was…well like it was duckweed on pond water. My golden bill was gobbling fur. It was just like you see ducks going nuts over pieces of bread. Well she didn’t like this at all. I apologized profusely and sincerely and won her back over. Before long my Cleo was amorous again. She had dropped to her knees and began to administer the gift. I was getting pretty close to exploding in my baby’s mouth watching her pretty head bobbing up and down. Then all of a sudden my duckhead started duck-biting the back of my head-giving sweetie’s head. Well that was the last straw. She marched me right down to Dink’s, still wearing my cowboy suit, and demanded the doctor fix the situation. She told Dink in no uncertain terms that she would sue his ass off for loss of consortium and pubic damage. So Dink replaced the mallard head with the old Immanuel Kant head. And Surprise! Happy Surprise! The old boy Kant took to cunt like…a duck takes to water. I mean boys let me tell you he makes my Cleo sing opera. He’ll be down there muffing away turning Cleo into unadulterated woman goo, setting her off to cumming and humming sweet Glory…He gets her all twisted up that he just has to take a break from time to time so poor Cleo don’t go a writhing into another dimension. And then when my Cleo’s flying the old philosopher just goes to reciting.

He’ll say all kinds of stuff that turns Cleo on…like

Assume that there is freedom in the transcendental sense, as a special kind of causality in accordance with which the events in the world can have come about, namely, a power of absolutely beginning a state, and therefore also of absolutely beginning a series of consequences of that state; it then follows that not only will a series have its absolute beginning in this spontaneity, but that the very determination of the spontaneity to originate the series, that is to say, the causality itself, will have an absolute beginning; there will be no antecedent through which this act, in taking place, is determined in accordance with fixed laws.

See what I mean? I’m telling you boys this is some powerful bedroom talk. When Kant philosophizes Cleo’s sweet cunt goes a clenching. She rides so high on that old philosopher you can see angels flying in her eyes.

And you know what? She ain’t letting the boy go now, in fact little Cleo said fuck that Colin Ferrell head, told Dink to keep it, there ain’t no critiquing this pure reason…we’re keeping the Kant!

The End

I lifted the Kant quote word for word but pretty much at random from "The Critique Of Pure Reason".