Buttsnax Sexwagon

I have written an original work of fiction ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sonny was driving. He had left San Francisco to be far away from the job that he no longer had. It was dark and he was upset because of the thing about his job that was mostly his fault. He thought about all the money and personal growth he would never have and felt sad. He was so sad that he did not see the deer crossing the road in front of him in Montana, which is where he was when this story began. He was understandably confused, because there aren’t deer in San Francisco where he lived, and he didn’t know what to do about it. He went to hit the brakes, but his foot slammed on the gas instead for reasons that were beyond his comprehension. Beyond his comprehension, perhaps, but not beyond the comprehension of Promise Spreckles, the deer in front of him with a computer-generated name that was using her psychic powers to compel Sonny into becoming the agent of her own self-destruction. Spiraling into a suicidal depression for reasons that would only be understandable to a hyper-intelligent deer-sorceress, she had used her psychic powers to make Sonny the agent of her own self-destruction, which I already told you about. His smooth, nondescript South Asian good looks (Spreckles was generalizing because deer have no concept of race or geography) and above-average penis length he inherited from his mother did not sway Spreckles from her decision. In fact, she took no notice of such things, because she was a deer and her psychic powers did not apply to the vaguely ominous domain of foreshadowing. Regardless, he mowed her down at 75 miles per hour. Did you know that Montana has several stretches of highway that have speed limits of 75 mph? You do now. That’s not actually relevant because he was in a 55 mph zone when it happened. Preoccupied with thoughts of losing his boring software job for doing a thing that made rich people mad, he wasn’t able to react in time. Also the deer was controlling his mind. “Oh no,” he cried out as he smashed into Spreckles, showering the empty highway with a splattering of deer viscera. He immediately pulled over and ran to what remained of the body. He cradled the deer’s head in his hands. “I really fucked you up,” he said. “Just like I fucked up my own life.” He reflected briefly on his relationship with his father. “That’s fucked up, too,” he said. He thought about all the times his father has been there for him except for the times his father abandoned him. Sonny felt the deer’s head arteries spurt hot blood onto his jeans. They were $200 jeans because he was from San Francisco. He tried to comfort the deer, singing to it. He tried to sing Bob Dylan’s “Boots of Spanish Leather” but couldn’t remember the words or the tune. It ended up being “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” He thought the deer wouldn’t know the difference, but he was wrong. The headlights of an oncoming car made Sonny look up. Braking hard to avoid the smear of cervine blood and guts spread across the pavement, the driver pulled over just before the car reached the red stain. Sonny watched as a man who looked like a portlier Josh Brolin from any Josh Brolin movie climbed out of his car. “What in tarnation,” exclaimed the newcomer, who had an agriculturally adjacent profession and was allowed to talk like that. 

But he had no idea how deep into tarnation he had stumbled. Offended by the broken song and awakened by the raw sexual energy of two men who had nothing in common and no reason to interact with each other, Promise Spreckles called upon the forbidden energies that were ceded to her at the dawn of time when she had been formed from the primordial promise of spreckles. It looked a lot like that scene from Prometheus. You know the one. The stranger took one look at Sonny cradling the severed deer head and got back into the car. At that moment, the deer pulled itself together, reconstituting itself in a brilliant flare of eldritch deer energy, reassembling itself organ by stomach-turning organ before their very eyes. “Jesus Mary Joseph,” the stranger muttered before driving away. Sonny wondered what Josh Brolin was doing all the way out in Montana. After the deer had pulled its body back together at a molecular level, Sonny stood up and got back in his car, continuing his drive to the cabin he had rented before this story was written. He had initially rented this cabin in the middle of nowhere, which was Montana, to get away from the crushing defeat of his own failure, but now all he could think of was a guy he had seen for maybe a minute and a half, tops.

Which was super great when that guy showed up at his door. “Hey,” said Lawrence, which was that guy’s name. “I just thought I’d check in on that deer.” “Oh,” said Sonny. “I think she’s fine.” “That’s gravy,” said Lawrence. “Country gravy. Because I’m from the country. I live in a trailer. I poop outside.” Sonny nodded. He was from San Francisco where they mostly pooped indoors. “It’s just,” Lawrence continued. “I was kinda hoping I could have its skin, if it was still around.” Sonny eyed him with an analytical gaze he had failed to apply to his job. “I think the skin is still in use,” he said. “Alright,” said Lawrence. Lawrence then left to do some things.

Sonny pondered this interaction, but not to the extent that Promise Spreckles did. She had exerted her psychic power to bring them together and yet they resisted. She thought back to what her friend Gambat had said: 

“You can’t make two men fuck. Not until they are really awkward for a bit.” She had questioned his wisdom then, asking why this should be. “You see,” Gambat had replied, “men like to fuck, some of them each other. But if they do it right away, your story comes out to maybe two hundred words.” His teachings had stuck with her, even years later, long after he had died of a strain of Bat Syphilis that only affects bats, which is what Gambat was. And thus she had used her powers to bring Lawrence and Sonny together. She wormed her magic into Lawrence’s mind, leading him to Sonny’s cabin, showing him the lonely road where it could be found. For she had planted the seeds; a raw spot on her flank, red and bare, that burned with pain when she touched it. A necessary sacrifice for the greater work. 

For Sonny had not seen, but Lawrence had. Oh, how he had seen. The scrap of fur and hide still clung to Sonny’s boot, and its bloody essence called to Lawrence. He had seen it from the doorway of the cabin and it would not leave his mind. It was not long until he returned from the things he had been doing that were now done. Spreckles was waiting under the eaves of the house when she saw the lights of his approaching Land Rover Discovery and heard the rumble of its three-liter LR-TD6 diesel engine. Lurking under the window—which was completely unnecessary because she could read thoughts, but she was old school in this way—she heard Lawrence introduce himself once more.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Lawrence.” “I know,” said Sonny. “You look like an agricultural claims adjuster.” “That is factually correct,” said Lawrence, who wanted to waste no time on small talk that was irrelevant to the larger narrative. “I am indeed a claims adjuster,” he continued. “But more importantly, I am an amatuer skin enthusiast, and I can’t help but notice that bit of hide clinging to your boot.” Sonny was nonplussed. “What, this?” he asked, pulling it from his boot and holding it to the light, missing the way Lawrence shifted his hips when he caught full sight of it. Yes. Thought Spreckles. All is proceeding according to plan. “Uh huh,” said Lawrence, breathing heavily. “That looks like the skin of a doe.” “Wow,” said Sonny. “You really know your skin.” Lawrence moved into the doorway. Sonny didn’t protest. He thought Lawrence smelled like Josh Brolin if Josh Brolin were dipped in butter, then dipped in butter a second time. “Yessir,” Lawrence said, taking the scrap of hide from Sonny’s fingers. “What are you going to do with it?” managed Sonny, if not a little seductively.

"Merry Christmas, mate." John watched as Sherlock unwrapped his present: a pack of extra large condoms for his extra large dick.

Sherlock blinked and strained to smile; he'd sold his dick on the black market just days ago in order to buy John his gift.

"This is . . . wow," said John as he pulled the anal beads out of the box marked for him. "I really like it, it's just, I traded my butthole to a guy on Craigslist for your con--Sherlock, are you crying?"

What a merry Christmas, indeed!