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A Remote Way Station

"The American oligarchy spares no pains in promoting the belief that it does not exist. But the success of its disappearing act depends on equally strenuous efforts on the part of an American public anxious to believe in egalitarian fictions, and unwilling to see what is hidden in plain sight."

― Michael Lind

Numbers Guys:

definition: "Teetering on the precipice of extinction, this breed has sex with as many women as possible...and keeps a running tally."

The "Sin" in Sin City had sizzled out. All that remained was just another town, where nothing amazing happened. Nobody experienced the extraordinary here anymore.

Lascivious lasses stopped handling more balls than a Dick's Sporting Goods warehouse, before returning to the Hell that is housewifery.

Tourists ceased humping BBW grad students, while their sorority sisters watched, drunk as Flavor Aid in Jonestown.

Husbands no longer had the means to ensure their wives were more fucked than a quadruple amputee, dumped with chum off the back of a boat, into shark-infested waters.

Instead, people in the Entertainment Capital of the World now stared at paper cards with numbers on them. They pushed puke green pieces of cloth around a table, pretending to be adventurous.

Unbeknownst to the zest-less, Casual Encounters on Craigslist ― via which copious cunts had been conquered, and countless cocks corralled ― was slain. This mighty mogul ― responsible for billions of orgasms ― died unceremoniously, while most slept.

It was a death nell the slumbering masses would never know about. To Don Keedik, it was anathema.

Gone were the days of sport fucking in the labyrinthian suburban jungle. Pre-moistened, female bodies ― awaiting the adrenaline rush of strange cock ― could no longer expect the delivery of such, at all hours of the night.

Again, this meant nothing to a snoozing populace pursuing non-existent "careers;" chasing the illusion of home "ownership." To Keedik, though, and the countless embedded in the swing scene, this was agonizing.

With Casual Encounters, one had been able to post a free online classified, and receive response from ordinary, interested folk. Within hours, sometimes minutes, people who'd never met prior, could get together and fuck, fulfilling sexual fantasies.

For years, this conduit had been a trusted friend to the horribly horny. And like all resources, government destroyed it, as if it had been breathable air in a gas chamber.

Bureaucracy fabricated a fatuous excuse, as to why they'd become "concerned" parents, taking our "lead painted" play toy away.

" '[S]ins of the flesh' is just a control mechanism — if you demonize a person's pleasure, then you can control his or her life."

― David Levithan

And, of course, the masses pretended to believe their master, since they were too frightened, or lazy, to stand up for themselves.

Don's head spiraled like a washing machine on the spin cycle; his stomach convulsing like a butter churn on National Toast Day.

"We still have swing clubs," Keedik told himself, even though he knew those were dwindling faster than reality on CNN.

Without Casual Encounters, repressed regions like the Bible Belt would no longer be hot beds, so to speak, for swinging. Places devoid of carnal clubs would experience a rapid rise in hairy palms and blindness.

Was this a fitting end to his time spent in Vegas? What began like a cannon blast had the potential of becoming nothing more than an un-pumped BB gun.

Was it imperative he move on?

Sin City was still a rancid narcotic melting in the desert Sun; an acid tab licked off a stripper's sweaty asshole. Like any bargain basement drug, though, peel back the brittle shell of euphoria, and you're left with abject emptiness.

Don was bleeding from his Chi, and attempting to reconstitute his essence. Having entombed his soul for the past three years beneath Las Vegas Boulevard, our hero had one last stop to make in the baked badlands, before catapulting into parts unknown. More remote than Hydra ― Pluto's most distant moon ― this roadside rest was purportedly fecund with fucking.

Nothing ― in regard to Numbers, except Germany or Jamaica ― would rival Vegas. Even though Keedik had a goal ― 5,000 women or bust ― humping that many in one place had less flavor than boiled water. Unearthing Oak Island troves ― where the horny congregate, however ― was more intriguing than a talking pussy begging for cock!

Able to honestly assert, "I've fucked at a drive-in porn theater," was more appealing than catching Theresa May pegging Donny Trump, with the prosthetic arm of a contract killer shipped to Iraq for 37 tours of duty.

We exist in an endless void we call space; we worship worthless pieces of paper we've named cash; we continually kill each other, and most of us see nothing wrong with this.

"We're all going to die, all of us [...]! That alone should make us love each other, but it doesn't. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing."

― Charles Bukowski

Ours is such a fucked-up storyline, and people are so fucked-up for believing it, without drowning the planet in the nuclear arsenal, it would be difficult to embroil oneself in a more sick situation. Still, so many incredibly feel this is healthy...as everyone around them is vaporized.

Moldy motel rooms; the ubiquitous stench of "boiled cabbage," or the miasma of decay, it was tough to tell. Crimson splotches strewn across interstate, indiscernible as to what lifeforms these Rorschach tests had been. Don hacked through the ruptured nothing, his psyche seriously scarred.

"How did he end up here, on this...whatever it was?!" He'd been told this was a planet, but the same assholes who'd lied to him 9/11 wasn't an inside job, pummeled it into his cerebrum this thing we're on is a celestial body.

As such, he didn't know what to believe. For all he fathomed, Earth was an atom in a larger organism.

Maybe the World was a cell, and humanity a cancer that had grown upon it. Once benign, this "disease" we've allowed ourselves to become was malignant with the decimation it caused.

Perhaps this was a dream, or solely a thought.

Were we characters inside some advanced video game?

In 1977, Philip K. Dick ― whose literary efforts became such blockbuster movies as Blade Runner, Minority Report, Paycheck, Total Recall, etc. ― held a press conference in which he asserted he'd been visited by an omniscient entity. This presence informed him everything we experience is nothing more than a computer simulation.

As boundless as this Universe seems, such is definitely a possibility.

"Things are unreal," mused Keedik. "It's as if an omnipotent, deranged screenwriter wrote this twisted script, and we're acting it out for his, her, or its unhinged entertainment."

You're mired in an insane system, where only you, and a handful of others, know reality. When you attempt to show this verity to your species, your own kind try to kill you.

"Almost everybody is born a genius and buried an idiot."

― Charles Bukowski

Nearly everyone around Don was moribund ― lumbering in flesh bodysuits, blatantly fuel for the masters they served, indifferent to their horrific plight.

On a road rockier than the Martian landscape, Keedik stared out the waxy windshield of a rental car. Destined for a week-long stint in a drive-in porn theater, he realized his was a dying breed. He was only aware of two other Numbers Guys left. One had a dick the circumference of a Coke can, while the other vanished into the ether, drinking fermented piss-water from the back of a putrescent, red Jeep.

Two different Digits Dudes ― a couple of millionaires he'd met in his travels ― had been exterminated by the system. One was terminated in his sleep, and the other puked up his guts, while perpetuating this pyramid scheme in which we all reside.

Sun-stained interstate unfurled before him, as Don pierced unknown territory. Somewhere beyond the horizon, the curdled confines of a motel room had been reserved for him. For the next seven days, such would be home. During that time, he'd explore a distant destination in the middle of nowhere.

But hadn't he been doing that his entire tenure on this planet? After all, wasn't that what Earth was; an isolated settlement in the darkness? A remote way station?

— authored by Hugh Mungus
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