Chapter 1: proloulouge
It's the molasses kind of Monday afternoon; a day that goes by slow and sweet - okay, maybe the day itself wasn’t sweet, but what you were doing was saccharine.
You were sitting at the kitchen table. To your left, you had your coffee (just the way you liked it). To your right, you had two cups of coffee (just the way you didn’t like it), and right in front of you was an open photo album, filled to the brim with pictures of you and your family over the last 60 years.
You were smiling softly as you looked through pictures from around 1969 or 1970 - you couldn’t quite remember - and you were bubbling with nostalgia and a little bit of meth, but then your eyes froze on a single picture.
You didn’t see yourself, or any of your other family members, but you recognized these children, and you especially recognized the bastard boy in the yellow shirt. Christian Emmerich. The boy who killed your passion for the triangle and made your school days a living hell.
“Parental guardian, was is you doing?” asked your teenaged goth daughter as she levitated into the kitchen.
“Oh, just looking through old photos -I’m not sure how this one got here though,” you said through involuntarily gritted teeth, and she peeked over your shoulder at the photo.
“Is that...Blixa Bargeld? Like, when he was a kid?” she tilted her head and put her hands on her hips. Habits she got from your godawful spouse.
“Who?” you looked at her, and she furrowed her brows as she mustered up the energy and brain cells to explain.
“The kid in the yellow shirt? I think he’s Blixa Bargeld? He’s an, um, musician - anti musician? He’s the lead singer of Einstürzende Neubauten.”
“What kind of music do they play? Pop music?” you asked as you gritted your teeth even harder. You picked up one of the coffee cups with a shaking right hand, your knuckles going white around the handle as you took a sip. It was the coffee you did not like.
“No,” she blurted, “They play experimental, industrial, avant-garde kind of stuff. I don’t really care for what they’re up to these days, but in the 80s their music was very, uh...” she paused a bit awkwardly, “bang-bang crash. drilling things, bashing sheet metal, stuff like that.”
You threw your coffee cup across the room, your daughter floated away from you and your body tensed up. Your teeth sunk into the inside of your cheek as you held your arms to your sides, your hands curled into fists. ‘Blixa’, huh? He was born with a name that was so goddamn boring he had to name himself after a pen and tack the word ‘cash’ on behind it. He was so good, wasn’t he? With his fame that he got from banging on-and-in dumpsters? The kitchen light was so bright now, or was it the sun in the window? You felt so much lighter, but there was still a twist in your gut. The world around you was stark white, yet you had a vague feeling of where you were. Some kind of weight was in your hands, and you could hear the sharp chime of a triangle ringing out. You looked down and saw two small hands with all fingers intact, a mallet in the left, a triangle hanging off the right. They were your hands, everything was technically off but there was something that was bothering you especially.
“You suck at playing triangle. Idiot.” said a boy’s voice. It was echoing through your mind, bouncing off the inside of your skull, and jabbing the inner workings of your ears. You looked up slowly. Pink trousers. Yellow shirt. Christian Emmerich. You opened your mouth and nothing came out, and he laughed in your face, each sound that came out of his mouth contributed to the sensation of dancing knives within your head. You wanted to scream, you wanted to cry, you wanted to cover your ears, but every inch of you was cement. Amid Christian’s insults and his laughter, you started to hear your own screaming and sobbing. You heard your childlike shriek, but your mouth did not move.
“Leave me alone, pee-pee shirt!”
Something in those pale blue eyes of his darkened, and he stood there and stared at you with the expression of a dead fish. Your intestines had almost twisted themselves into the perfect figure-eight knot, and each of your shaky breaths pulled it tighter. You almost knew what was about to happen - you know you had been here before - but it seemed new, and when Christian smiled at you all the blood in your body chilled. You dropped the triangle, the sound of it ringing through the white space you were trapped in. He approached slowly, each step sending a jolt of anxiety through you. He knelt down as if he was going to pick it up, but he looked at you and took your hand into his. He knew what he was going to do, and now you knew. He opened his mouth, took your index finger into it, you could still feel the disgusting warmth of his mouth years from now, and he bit down into your finger just behind the second joint, and you let out a bloodcurdling shriek. You were in your kitchen and your right hand was raised up to your eye level. You no longer had ten fingers. You had nine, and Christian Emmerich had taken the tenth.
“Mom? Dad? Are you okay?” asked your daughter, and you turned to look at her and she was staring at you - staring like him - and you grabbed another coffee cup and threw it at her, missing her narrowly. She flew out of the kitchen screaming, and you flipped the kitchen table over. Photo albums be damned, you had a bone to pick and blood to spill.
You were going to kill Christian Emmerich, or as he has come to be known, Blixa Bargeld.
Of course, the first place you went after tearing your front door off its hinges was to the swimming pool - Christian was one hell of a swimmer back in high school. You had screamed the entire way, and people stared at you and slowly retreated as you ran through the streets on all fours, tearing down signs, ripping fire hydrants off the street, cursing all who crossed your path. You were frothing at the mouth and crying as you bust down the doors of the public swimming pool. Mothers with their young children turned to you as you let out the most ungodly shriek.
"CHRISTIAN EMMERICH THATS FUCKING - THATS - THATS FUCKING BLIXA THATS THE FUCKING GUY WHO TOLD ME I DIDNT KNOW HOW TO PLAY TRIANGLE!!" you screamed as you knocked children into the water and hurled recliners through the room, the panicked shrieks of parents, lifeguards, children, and chefs alike filling the air, bouncing in your head like Christian's words. The world was going red, your face flushed, veins popping out of your arms and forehead.
"NOW HE'S OUT HERE! SMASHING THEM??!! AND HE'S SUCCESSFUL??! WHILE I WAS THE ONE WHO HAD NO TALENT??! FUCK!" you saw a young boy who vaguely resembled Christian Emmerich, and then another, and then another, and you began pulling rocks out of your pockets and throwing them at the Christianlings, one of the stones hitting the second one in the back of the head. He fell to the floor with a thud and blood started to dribble out of the wound, and a woman screamed and ran towards him. Every male child in this building looked exactly like Christian - and one of them could be Christian, so you could not show mercy. You began tossing rocks faster than an AK-47 could shoot!
You couldn't hear the police sirens over the screams, and you were so focused on assaulting children that you didn't defend yourself against the hordes of adults tackling your elderly body.
"Getting a little violent there are ve?" said the police officer that was handcuffing you as you were held down by several retributional mothers, you struggled under their grip but to no avail. Your rage-induced strength was dwindling, and you laid there limp and sobbing, murmuring "Christian" over and over as the police dragged you out of the building.
On a nearby road, a pitch black Trabi had pulled over, and a police car was parked behind it.
An officer strode over to the passenger's window, and the driver lowered it.
"Going a little fast there, vere ve?" said the officer as it leaned into the window. The young rubber-clad man inside looked at him coolly, not bothering to remove his sunglasses. With a shrug, Blixa replied "Immer," and hit the gas, speeding away from the police as he had always done - until the officer pulled out a lasso and roped his car, pulling him back as quickly as he had tried to leave.
"You've been evading us for years, but you're not getting away this time you terrorist accomplice!" it's voice boomed,
"You are under a rest!"
=to be continued, in jail=>
Chapter 2: chapter 2 unser kampf (its the one where you go to jail9
my old man is a bad man but i can;t deny the way he holds my ha
i dont know how germansy works and i dont want to know sso this is AN VERY ACCURATE AMERICAN STYLE PRISON in germanys please accept that if you dont therenis nothign you can do to change this. also i was supposed to start writing this sooner but my deficits hurt me very bad yes they did so i could not bring myself to write this until 2am (prime writing time) so that is why quality flew.
THE COPS TRANQUILIZED THE FUCK OUT OF YOU, MAN,
you wokeup (seE: regained emotional and cognitive stability) in a cold damp jail cell that had ABSOLUTELY NOTHING in it except you. and a bucket. and a metal. and lots of spiders and cob webs and a really big leak in the ceiling. and moss. AND a very spicy old man who was perched on the ceiling. "y/n" he said very spicily and also sexily and angriy. "q slur" you said back with great confusion, and he got down from the ceiling and cornered you, grabbing you by the soldiers and leaning in close to your ear,
"I'm 26-years-old," he sweetly yelled, and then he ran to the other end of the cell laughing, and then he unbuckled one of his belts and began whipping himself with it.
"YOU. you are. awaken!" said a police officer who phased through the bars of your cell, "my name is joneson jenkinson, i am here to remove both of your human rights. this is what you and blixa get for domestic terrorism, child abuse, drug trafficking, public indecency, and worst of all, going over the speed limit." he brandished his really big baton (you would not believe howbig it is) and began stroking it while you watched with large helpless eyes.
"wait, blixa?" you tried to ask but it was too late, your human rights were already gone and he was beating you off while blixa kept beating himself off. you howled in pain and anger as the big wooden baton repeatedly hit you over and over again. blixa was still laughing. joneson jenkinson did not say a word and teleported out of the room. and the moment joneson jenkinson left the room, blixa began jumping on your limp body and yelling incomprehensibly about his age.
"i'm 26! twenty-6 you here me?!! not one year younger not one year younger most importantly NOT 34 YEARS OLDER!!! if anyone contradicts me i will bite them! i will sink my sharp little teeths into them and they will cry! you fuckin verstehen?!" he yelled at the wall (hes german thats how germans speak)
"no." you said an dhe turned to you with red eyes and began screaming.
" iam going to KILL you, chr*st**n *mm*r*ch just like how you killed my passion for triangle!" oyu said as you lunged at him and wrapped your hands around your throat and throttled him.
"i cannot die," he explained calmly and clearly although you were choking him, which led to you throttling him harder and screaming directly into his ears, "i have not been able to since christian died" he added
"you are christian. idiot" you said very angrily as veins began popping out of your forehead as you tried with all your might to strangle a deeply unaffected blixa bargeld, who you noticed was very beautiful, but you did not allow yourself to dwell on it because in your mind you had to kill him. you could fuck the body later. sex bomb my baby yeah! he looked you dead in the eyes and said "not since the accident" and you yelled back at him "WHAT ACCIDENT." and he started shaking as tears formed in his eyes as you losened your grip slighty.
"one day in 1979..." he started and then interrupted himself with a coughing fit, "christian emmerich was walking down the skreet and someone in their bmw, they, they," he coughed again and vomited a ltitle bit of bile on your chest, "they threw an erdinger kristall can out of their bmw and it hit christian in the head. and he died. he literally died right there in the skreet because the beer can hit him so hard all of his hair fell out and so did his life he was dead i tell you y/n were too late the beer can already killed him. idiot. and then i was born. and i cannot die." you let go and you both stood there for 9 hours because you really had to think about it.
"i am not quite as angry now, but i am still going to attempt to harm you because it makes me feel better." you responded. "oh, ok" he said. a long silence passed.
"i'm 26 years old."
"i know" you whispered seductively
he then embraced you and began leaving soft kis on the bruises from where you were beatne with the great big baton. you experienced the sensation of rats running up and down your spine and chewing on your spinal cord, so you slid your hand down your waistband and into your underwear, felt around, and then pulled out the spoon you always kept in there in case of emergencies and pried him off with it. "i am not ready for this level of intipathy!!!!!!!!!!!!" you explained to a dejected blixa, who went back to beating himself with a belt in the corner. a few minutes passed. and then you stomped over and snatched the belt out of his hands, rose it as high into the air as you could, and struck down onto his back as hard as you possibly could and he let out a disturbing yet weirdly sexually frustrated scream. you struck him with the belt over and over and with each strike you could almost envision yourself striking your trauma away (which is not possible, but it made you feel good in the moment). your vision went whtie with pure ecstacy and blixa turned around and looked you in the eyes as his body began spasming and then he tried to bite your hamd, which snapped you out of THE ZONE and you smacked him in his pale lidl face and scrambled to the other end of the room sobbing.
"daddy come back i'm sorry" he cried out but you did not listen n instead chose to cover yourself in moss.
joneson jenkisnon stood outside the jail bars with a boombox and turned it on.
"baby come back! you can blame it all on me, i was wrong and i just can't live without you" the boombox softly played and everyone int he roo mfelt the sentiment and you peeked out from the moss pile and into blixa's gorgest eyes and then suddenyl
"juice, sauce, lil bit of dressing, ice, wrist, lil bit of flexing"
it was a yung gravy song. it was cheryl by yung gravy playing at max volume, your boomer brain did not know how to handle this so you reached into your purse and pulled out a syringe and jammed it into your neck and injected 4 liters of cocaine in to yourveins and danced aggressively on top of blixa who immediately pissed himself and spoke in tongues in shock.
"talk dirty to me, mein fuhrer" you half-moaned half-shrieked at blixa as you pelted his body with fresh moss. your strap was already out.
he looked at you with half-lidded eyes and smirked, kneeling before you and dramatically reciting hsi favorite ertocia because BLIXA IS A LIAR AND A CHEAT
"You swine. You vulgar little maggot. Don't you know that you are pathetic? You worthless bag of filth. As we say in Texas, I'll bet you couldn't pour piss out of a boot with instructions on the heel. You are a canker. A sore that won't go away. I would rather kiss a lawyer than be seen with you.
You are a fiend and a coward, and you have bad breath. You are degenerate, noxious and depraved. I feel debased just for knowing you exist. I despise everything about you. You are a bloody nardless newbie twit protohominid chromosomally aberrant caricature of a coprophagic cloacal parasitic pond scum and I wish you would go away.
You're a putrescence mass, a walking vomit. You are a spineless little worm deserving nothing but the profoundest contempt. You are a jerk, a cad, a weasel. Your life is a monument to stupidity. You are a stench, a revulsion, a big suck on a sour lemon.
You are a bleating fool, a curdled staggering mutant dwarf smeared richly with the effluvia and offal accompanying your alleged birth into this world. An insensate, blinking calf, meaningful to nobody, abandoned by the puke-drooling, giggling beasts who sired you and then killed themselves in recognition of what they had done.
I will never get over the embarrassment of belonging to the same species as you. You are a monster, an ogre, a malformity. I barf at the very thought of you. You have all the appeal of a paper cut. Lepers avoid you. You are vile, worthless, less than nothing. You are a weed, a fungus, the dregs of this earth. And did I mention you smell?
If you aren't an idiot, you made a world-class effort at simulating one. Try to edit your writing of unnecessary material before attempting to impress us with your insight. The evidence that you are a nincompoop will still be available to readers, but they will be able to access it more rapidly.
You snail-skulled little rabbit. Would that a hawk pick you up, drive its beak into your brain, and upon finding it rancid set you loose to fly briefly before spattering the ocean rocks with the frothy pink shame of your ignoble blood. May you choke on the queasy, convulsing nausea of your own trite, foolish beliefs.
You are weary, stale, flat and unprofitable. You are grimy, squalid, nasty and profane. You are foul and disgusting. You're a fool, an ignoramus. Monkeys look down on you. Even sheep won't have sex with you. You are unreservedly pathetic, starved for attention, and lost in a land that reality forgot.
And what meaning do you expect your delusionally self-important statements of unknowing, inexperienced opinion to have with us? What fantasy do you hold that you would believe that your tiny-fisted tantrums would have more weight than that of a leprous desert rat, spinning rabidly in a circle, waiting for the bite of the snake?
You are a waste of flesh. You have no rhythm. You are ridiculous and obnoxious. You are the moral equivalent of a leech. You are a living emptiness, a meaningless void. You are sour and senile. You are a disease, you puerile one-handed slack-jawed drooling meatslapper.
On a good day you're a half-wit. You remind me of drool. You are deficient in all that lends character. You have the personality of wallpaper. You are dank and filthy. You are asinine and benighted. You are the source of all unpleasantness. You spread misery and sorrow wherever you go.
I cannot believe how incredibly stupid you are. I mean rock-hard stupid. Dehydrated-rock-hard stupid. Stupid so stupid that it goes way beyond the stupid we know into a whole different dimension of stupid. You are trans-stupid stupid. Meta-stupid. Stupid collapsed on itself so far that even the neutrons have collapsed. Stupid gotten so dense that no intellect can escape. Singularity stupid. Blazing hot mid-day sun on Mercury stupid. You emit more stupid in one second than our entire galaxy emits in a year. Quasar stupid. Your writing has to be a troll. Nothing in our universe can really be this stupid. Perhaps this is some primordial fragment from the original big bang of stupid. Some pure essence of a stupid so uncontaminated by anything else as to be beyond the laws of physics that we know. I'm sorry. I can't go on. This is an epiphany of stupid for me. After this, you may not hear from me again for a while. I don't have enough strength left to deride your ignorant questions and half baked comments about unimportant trivia, or any of the rest of this drivel. Duh.
The only thing worse than your logic is your manners. I have snipped away most of what you wrote, because, well... it didn't really say anything. Your attempt at constructing a creative flame was pitiful. I mean, really, stringing together a bunch of insults among a load of babbling was hardly effective... Maybe later in life, after you have learned to read, write, spell, and count, you will have more success. True, these are rudimentary skills that many of us "normal" people take for granted that everyone has an easy time of mastering. But we sometimes forget that there are "challenged" persons in this world who find these things more difficult. If I had known, that this was your case then I would have never read your post. It just wouldn't have been "right". Sort of like parking in a handicap space. I wish you the best of luck in the emotional, and social struggles that seem to be placing such a demand on you.
P.S.: You are hypocritical, greedy, violent, malevolent, vengeful, cowardly, deadly, mendacious, meretricious, loathsome, despicable, belligerent, opportunistic, barratrous, contemptible, criminal, fascistic, bigoted, racist, sexist, avaricious, tasteless, idiotic, brain-damaged, imbecilic, insane, arrogant, deceitful, demented, lame, self-righteous, Byzantine, conspiratorial, satanic, fraudulent, libelous, bilious, splenetic, spastic, ignorant, clueless, illegitimate, harmful, destructive, dumb, evasive, double-talking, devious, revisionist, narrow, manipulative, paternalistic, fundamentalist, dogmatic, idolatrous, unethical, cultic, diseased, suppressive, controlling, restrictive, malignant, deceptive, dim, crazy, weird, dystopic, stifling, uncaring, plantigrade, grim, unsympathetic, jargon-spouting, censorious, secretive, aggressive, mind-numbing, abrasive, poisonous, flagrant, self-destructive, abusive, socially-retarded, puerile, clueless, and generally Not Good."
you had already nutted and were very bored at this point, so you went back to the moss pile and fell asleep to the sounds of blixa gagging on cobwebs to suppress his wailing.
=to be continued, still in jail=>
Chapter 3: chachter 3
You didn’t sleep. How could you sleep with him next to you? That man who’s memory you had dedicated at least fifty years of your life to from hatred and hurt? The one who had permeated almost every thought and dream you’ve had since childhood? You simply couldn’t sleep on your allotted pile of scrap metal.
So, you paced around the cell and masturbated repeatedly for 9 hours, and by the time the sun started to show a sliver of it’s skin-sizzling light the cell’s floor was a bit slick with your fluids. Your nipples were raw, your legs aches, your groin throbbed with agony, and your entire body had been left in emotional stitches. You sat on your knees and watched as Blixa began to stir in his sleep, looking innocent, as if he hadn’t bit your fingertip off in childhood. His entire upper body snapped up, arms outstretched, as he “yawned” - the sound coming from him being a combination between the screams of a doomed empire and a foghorn - and a large tarantula crawled out of his mouth and fell, dying seconds before it hit the floor from what could have plausibly been either the horrific noise or the horrific stench of Blixa’s breath.
Blixa stopped yawning and stared at the dead arachnid, and tearfully he croaked out a quiet “why do I destroy everything I love?”, so you almost felt bad for him, and then he said “I’m so sorry, Gotti,” and choked back a sob, so you felt even worse, but then he grinned and declared “Ah, frühstuck!” and you couldn’t even bear to look at him as he tore into the monstrous spider-like creature, and you withdrew into the comfort of your Gucci purse, which you stuffed your head into and hoped to suffocate.
You took the purse off your head once you heard Blixa’s moans of completion. He lay there on his scrap metal pile with a little leftover tarantula goo stuck on his chin, looking content. He gazed at you like one might gaze at a memory they aren’t sure is a dream, or a recollection of the night you drunkenly blacked out and woke up in a Scooby Doo costume in a trailer that had once belonged to the corpses littering the floor. He rose up and started to walk towards you, and before you could even think to warn him he had already slipped on your fluiages and started sliding all around the jail cell as you looked on in disinterest. He slid, slipped, tripped, slid, slammed, until he had collapsed beneath you, black & blue but still not through. Blixa made direct eye contact with you as he awkwardly attempted to lay his head on your lap but kept having to readjust because your legs currently sloped downwards and gravity personally hates the Germans.
“Talk to me, meine kleine Fick-Banane,” bleated Blixa with much desperation. You wiped the tarantula goo off his chin with your thumb, licked it clean, and frothed at the mouth.
“I’m going to do great damage to your house, I’m going to burn your livestock and kill your crops. I will ensure your children turn out poorly. I will hunt your money for sport. I am going to fuck both of your parents so hard and for so long that they’ll still be squirting out my seed every time you hug them for the next 19 years.” you said through green froth. Blixa yawned. You hissed and somehow jumped backwards, and he went flying from your lap and into the air. His body hit the floor with many loud cracks.
“At least I didn’t use a goddamn copypasta, you lazy bitch, you liar and cheat,” you literally had specks of acid and venom flying out your mouth as you spoke, Blixa had just gotten on his knees as the specks landed on him, and he fell forward, fists balled, and looked at you with tears in his eyes. He shook and you could see where he was biting the inside of his cheek, and momentarily, there was a pang of remorse, and then confusion, and then disgust - you weren’t supposed to feel anything for him - and then a loud, high pitched “HEE” pierced your ears and your earlobes and you jolted out of your mind and looked down at your cellmate who had his face pressed into the floor.
He completely rotated his neck with a loud snap to gaze at you, and Blixa opened his mouth but no scream came out.
Instead, he yelled “AGAGGAGAGAGAGAGAAGAGAGGAAGAGAGA” and began convulsing, as all Germans do when in pain, and then snapped his head around. crawled around the room while still yelling as you jumped around him, trying to avoid getting knocked over by the rapidly crawling man, and then he perched on a very long metal pole. He pointed at you and hooted. There were squawks in response, but they weren’t yours. At the one window, two translucent, tar-and-feather-coated hands wrapped around the bars. You watched on, frozen, perhaps feeling a touch of terror as Blixa’s hooting became more frantic and the squawking got louder. A face abruptly rose up to the bars, a pale male with a shock of dark brown hair and bared teeth and a pretty sexy nose shape whose greyish-green (greenish-grey?) eyes darted between you and yuor German wife.
“VATI?!” he shrieked, rattling the bars and effortlessly shoving his face through them - the bars simply passed through his feathered spirit, and Blixa gripped his perch tighter and hissed at him, and you scooted away from the feathered man and closer to your hissing one.
“WHO IS THIS WHORE?!!” it wasn’t a question, evidentially, because the man let out a barrage of screams as Blixa opened his mouth. You clenched your jaw.
“WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME VATI?!!! I’VE BEEN SO GOOD! WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME TO DIE BEHIND THE LOCAL WENDY’S? OUR WENDY’S!!!” he phased through the wall and careened around the inside of the cell, feathers flying about as he shrieked his grievances.
“Frank,” Blixa pleaded, but ‘Frank’ just threw a pile of scrap metal at him, knocking him off the perch. He let out an inward scream as he got up, and Frank floated down to his level, part of his body going into the floor.
“YOU BETRAYED ME, YOU HAVE BROKEN ME, ALL FOR SOME YOUNG TART, HUH, VATI?” he spat bitterly at a much quieter tone than his last verbal assaults, and he reached out one blackened hand and stroked Blixa’s cheek. Blixa yanked away, and it left a long black smear of tar.
“Blixa? W-what the fuck?” you choked out in disbelief.
“It’s been over 35 years, you need to let it go - let me go — let us go,” he pleaded to the feathery ghost, who rested his chin on his fist and started to think really hard.
“You’re not even a full person, you’re just an overgrown and overdeveloped persona the real Frank Tovey created for, like, a music video and album cover, and maybe some live performances, you’re just...” Blixa sighed, “Feathered Frank.”
Feathered Frank hissed and turned to you and he started doing a weird dance as he advanced in your direction, but Blixa skittered really really really fast on his fingers and toes and got in between the two of you and trilled loudly at his ex. Your face and body paled, as all the blood in you (absolutely all of it) rushed to your genitals. Feathered Frank snarled something you couldn’t understand and reluctantly passed through the cobblestone walls, leaving the two of you alone.
“What the hell was that?”
He looked back at you and shrugged.
“I encountered Frank Tovey back in the 80s and he was tarred and feathered and I...got a bit curious. I didn’t realize I was having a whirlwind affair a totally separate being, or that it would come back to literally haunt me,” he explained, but you still felt a wound, ‘a shtuken nisht in hartz!’, as your Yiddish-speaking mother-in-law would call it. It puzzled you, how your almost-lifelong “enemy” could hurt you like this. You grabbed him by his shoulders and started shaking him.
“Validate me! Validate me!” you cried, but he looked at you with a blank expression.
“I wonder what Frank Tovey’s ghost is up to these days....” he mused.
In that moment, in a distant land, Frank Tovey was in someone’s kitchen wearing nothing but his underwear. He shook the devil out of his can of shaving cream. and then positioned it over his mouth like whipped cream and sprayed, only to be dismayed when it fell not down but through his throat and onto the tiles below. He tried again, and again, and again, until the can was empty. He crumpled to the ground and tried scooping it up and into his mouth, but it simply fell back to the ground. Frank let out a wail and slammed his head through the floor, and he laid down and rolled back and forth over the piles of shaving cream. “Goddamit, Blixa! God fucking damn you, you ruined everything!”
You shook him harder, and he stopped musing and looking at you.
“You have a very nice.” he smiled at you which was a bit unsettling.
“A very nice what?”
He swallowed your entire head and then regurgitated you and your face went as red as a tomatillo, and you stuttered and stammered and cried in a mix of lust, for it was the type of contact and validation that drove you wild (the kind your husband couldn’t give you), and disgust, for you had been exposed to all kinds of strange critters and specially curated diseases while you were in there.
“Soul.” he concluded. And then you had wild sex for 2 seconds. And then you walked away and buried your face into the bricks out of embarrassment.
“That’s the first time I’ve ever done anything outside my marriage,” you murmured as your face reddened more and more, and he leaped over to you and shook you violently.
“Marriage is for chumps, I would know, marriage is for chumps and if you get married your a looser” and then you kissed him and he stuck his tongue and all his internal organs down your throat and both your eyes were open the whole time so you got to stare deeply into his blue windows and all you saw within was TV-static and dirty syringes on junkyard grounds and that was when you truly gave yourself to this primordial demon.
Two days had passed and you had both been fucking nonstop and howling and shrieking and “sparring” with each other and even the wardens were too afraid to look or walk in your cell’s general direction so many prisoners either escaped or died as a result of neglect. They were genuinely considering letting you go or making “it” look like an accident just to make you stop.
You were in the middle of a BDSM scene with Blixa when a scary white man with black hair phased through the wall.
“Rowland,” moaned Blixa in surprise.
“I haven’t slept in a fucking week because of you, stop fucking fucking or I will fuck both of you to death with an axe,” he was calm as he said this in his very Australian Australian accent that was from Australia because it was Australian.
“You don’t need sleep because you’re dead!” cried Blixa and you stared at Rowland in terror and gripped your whip even tighter.
“You fucking necrophobe,” Rowland had tears in his eyes, “The dead do need sleep too, we’re not as different as you think,” he was sobbing in anger, “if you weren’t having constant sex you could have probably escaped by now,” he phased out of the room screaming.
“Damn he’s right, untie me babe,” you reluctantly untied Blixa and his nipples morphed into two really long pink muscly arms and he snatched you with his two normal arms then punched a hole into the wall and walked out with you and nobody cared because they were relieved you stopped making sex. However your way out was a bit painful because the ghost, Rowland, kept throwing wasabi into your passion-wounds.
He carried you home and bust down the door and your goth daughter was at the dinner table with YOUR JEWISHS HUSBAND who you did NOT love.
“Honey, who is this?” he inquired a bit awkwardly from behind his very large pile of rice.
“It’s Blixa!” your goth daughter cried in disbelief and she accidentally knocked down your husband’s rice pile and he held back tears.
“Blixa...?” he said through a near-sob, tears almost shed not for Blixa, but for his rice.
“I want a divorce.” you said emotionlessly and you pegged Blixa on the dinner table in front of your ENTIRE FAMILY including distant cousins and in-laws and people you didn’t even realize you were related to, like Robert Smith, who was there. They were all screaming and throwing tomatoes at you and your goth daughter shoved her heavily made-up face into her rice and cried.
Your husband grabbed his back and screamed in agony and then he died of sudden back pain. The screams and clamoring grew louder as your pegging became more intense and soon Blixa’s screams drowned anything else out. It’s because Rowland had smeared your strap with wasabi and neither of you realized until it was too late.
This was the best night of your entire life.