by Marc Lengfield
So there I was, Id 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 Bobs vast collection, a little duct tape, and Presto!
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 mustve been one of
those gremlin thingys and the next thing I knew my face was gone.
I was pretty upset about this
it wasnt looking like the day
was going down too well. And I suppose I should never gone about cleaning
that gun wearing Little Bobs strange hands. Well actually they were
my hands and I had made them strange. I guess I need to tell you about
strange hands. Its 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 dont
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 ones hands until they get real numb. That way when you
go to flogging the hog it feels like someone elses 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
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 doctors
place of business. Doctor Dink took one look at my blown apart face and
You gotta be kidding! Thats when he told me there was
no hope of fixing my head, it just couldnt 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 didnt want any of
those, though I did try on the Churchill and the Monroe. The Churchill
wasnt bad, but the phrase This was our finest hour! kept issuing
from my Churchillian lips. I didnt 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 wouldnt do. And
of course I didnt even seriously consider the Kant. Just looking
at it wouldve 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 womans 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 wouldnt stay. The womans breasts head wasnt
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 wouldnt be proud to sport such
smooth shining liquid emerald green? Yes it was the perfect temporary
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 Dinks 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 loves 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 wasnt 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 mans 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 dont know what came over me;
it was like the head had its own mallard mind. Suddenly my duckbill had
bitten my loves 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. Dont
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 thats where I started. I got right down on my sweet
babys muff as if I was heading into the holy land and
disaster. My duckhead started quacking and attacking my Cleos 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 didnt 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 babys 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 sweeties head. Well that was the last
straw. She marched me right down to Dinks, 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
duck takes to water. I mean boys let me tell you he makes my Cleo sing
opera. Hell be down there muffing away turning Cleo into unadulterated
woman goo, setting her off to cumming and humming sweet Glory
gets her all twisted up that he just has to take a break from time to
time so poor Cleo dont go a writhing into another dimension. And
then when my Cleos flying the old philosopher just goes to reciting.
Hell say all kinds of stuff that turns Cleo on
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.
I mean? Im telling you boys this is some powerful bedroom talk.
When Kant philosophizes Cleos 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 aint letting the boy go now, in fact little Cleo said
fuck that Colin Ferrell head, told Dink to keep it, there aint no
critiquing this pure reason
were keeping the Kant!
the Kant quote word for word but pretty much at random from "The
Critique Of Pure Reason".