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Dream: 6/2/2014

Dream Journal

Dream: 6/2/2014

I’m in one of my childhood homes. I’m in the back stairwell that leads down to the basement. I’m talking with my mother about why I’ve been gone so long. I explain that I’ve been searching for something in Asia. It’s strange because I’m an adult but I’m talking to her as if I’m a child. After several moments of this conversation I get frustrated because she keeps treating me like a little boy. I look down at the floor in shame, but I notice there is a trickle of water coming through the bottom of the back door. I motion to it. My mother ignores it. Suddenly the window of the door explodes sending slivers of glass into our faces and gallons of water pour through the broken portal. We’re pushed back into the wall and before we can say anything the house collapses in on itself because of a great flood. The force is brutal. This home is miles away from the nearest lake or river so I find this flood odd. As I struggle to escape from the water and lumber remnants swirling about me, I see my mother disappear down the stairwell into a dark gloom of the abyss.

Vicky Valentine’s Erotic Adventures Episode 14: A Fistful of Zombie Nuts

Vicky Valentine Cover 2

Vicky Valentine’s Erotic Adventures

A Neo-Noir Pulp Erotic Thriller

Episode 14: A Fistful of Zombie Nuts

 

My “tic-tac” comment hangs in the air.

Don Diab, the master magician, foul centenarian, and prince of darkness, stands there silently contemplating my sarcasm. His rage threatens to unleash.

Le Malaise, the ghastly club where we find ourselves, becomes utterly silent as a Mexican standoff develops. Tension stretches tight over the situation. Our silence becomes an invisible referee keeping the altercation in check, but I know it won’t last long. It never does.

I scan the players in this game of death. This motley collection would inspire terror in a lesser woman, but I remain calm because getting in and out of situations like these is what I do.

In front of me, the 800-year-old wizard stands with his tiny cock out. His eyes burn with complete hatred for me. He hesitates to sick his lap dogs on us. Why? I don’t know. With his infinitesimally tiny man-junk and colossal provocation for pompous vocabulary, I think he’s a pretentious jerk who needs to be taught a lesson, and I’m just the bitch to give it to him. Hello, douche-bag meet your rock n’ roll she-devil maker.

To my left, the mistress Lady Minx waits with her gigantic chauffeur/bodyguard the Blind Tiger. Minx with her fake Creole accent and mysterious intentions takes a step backward. The Blind Tiger still withholds my firearm but he tenses nervously killing time before the blowback. I’m not sure which side either of these bad motherfuckers is on, but I bet the one they choose will kick some serious ass.

On the table, the cutie Mr. Jonathan Crepax breathes calmly. With his handsome looks and gorgeous cock, he looks surprisingly calm for someone whose family jewels are about to be nibbled on by aquatic rodents and whose backside is about to be penetrated by a centenarian sorcerer. I can’t even imagine how much Cupid’s itchy-scratchiest this warlock might have… 800 years is a long, long time to be taking the Hershey highway without a hitch.

My sidekick and young lover, True, with her innocent smile that always disarms me, stands defiant in the face of certain zombie death. I glance at her wishing her fate could be brighter like the “2.5 kids and picket fence” shit. I know better. She made her choice long ago.

Around us, fifty flesh-bots with wriggling avian-pacifiers wait patiently like meat statues. Lining the exits, twelve bodyguards who look like muscle-head faggots from gay porn pretend to be macho but are terrified of the zombies and their potential enemies. On the outer ring of our stalemate, a couple of zombie pooches, some undead monkeys, and countless other hidden monstrosities lurk in the shadows. These abominations mindlessly wait for the bidding of their diabolical master.

To round out the good, the bad, and the ugly, I stand ready for anything, Miss Victoria Valentine, with my loudmouth swagger, with my penchant for shit luck, and with my fondness for kinky sex, I wait for the inevitable battle to erupt with my insurgent smile.

The moment lasts until I do what I do best—telling shit-heads they’re shit-heads.

The possibility of everyone getting out of here alive vanishes as I say, “I find you repugnant and anandrious. In other words Diab, in vocabulary you can understand, I find you to be an impotent asshole.”

As if by cue, a deafening explosion blows the bolted club doors to kingdom come. Shards of broken glass and rotten wood assault the bodyguards. Through the billowing smoke a dark figure with guns ablaze screams, “Lass uns tanzen, mein Liebling.”

Let’s dance, my darling” in German. My dick-head ex-boyfriend, Wilhelm Wilder, mows down several of the bodyguards with his twin Glock 17s leaving smoking 9x19mm signatures in their brains.

Diab raises his hands into the air and mutters a single magic word, “Danh-hwe…”

The invisible levee breaks. I feel a rush of chilling air. Zombies swarm us.

I lunge for the nearest flesh-bot and tear arm from body. I whip it around like a lasso nailing several undead and decapitating them. Several of the little birdies fly free from their mouth-prisons and head for the rafters like spirits. I swing anything I get my hands on—dismembered arms, legs, or pricks. Another zombie lurches at me, I sidestep the stiff and grab for his moldering cock. Instead of snagging the rotting shaft, my fingers catch scrotum tearing it from body like Velcro. I hurl it at another enemy. I snag a piece of lumber from the floor. The zombies burst like rotten green tomatoes as I plow through them swinging the broken 2×4.

True picks up the ceremonial sword and swings it like gangbusters. Unfortunately, the sword is ten pounds heavier than she can handle safely. It flies out of her hands, whips across the room, and decapitates three zombies as it embeds like a thumbtack into another zombie who sticks to the back wall like a Post-it note.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the remaining bodyguards raise their firearms. Oh, missus mother o’ pearl! Here it comes. The bodyguards open fire. The Lady Minx steps in front of me, raises her hand, mutters some unintelligible gibberish, and the bullets fall to the ground as if by magic. With a tiny smile tugging at her lips, she gives me a quick wink and I realize everything about this ebony sorceress exists as a complicated diversion meant to mislead—the Creole, the chauffeur, the chicken bones—all an elaborate ruse to fool the curious, and now she’s on our side. Blind Tiger confirms this by blasting a few more bodyguards with my gun.

Through the pandemonium, Crepax remains serene, as if naptime is more important, and none of this is actually happening.

Zombies are everywhere. One of the monkey-things lunges at me. I catch it midair before it can scratch out my eyes. A human penis is stitched to its nose like Gonzo from the Muppets. I snap its neck.

We battle the undead. Woe betides our enemies—bullets fly, entrails become lassos, and worms spew from undead victims. Ichor flows covering us in black bile. By the end of the ordeal we’re covered head-to-toe in flesh-bot juice. The nasty liquid paints our bodies, between our toes, in our hair, and between our legs.

This grossness reminds me of a time I had sex with a guy in a hotel room who got the lamebrain idea of bringing some colorful body paints. Oooo… How creative and sexy! Wrong. We rolled around doing the dirty like people do. Within minutes, all the bright colors mixed into shit brown. We had to burn the sheets. I was cleaning that bad idea out of my butt-crack for weeks. Thinking about this dirty zombie blood oozing between my butt-cheeks almost makes me nostalgic for that dingbat in the hotel room. Ah, simpler times…

Diab screams, “Enough!”

The carnage stops. We stand there mid-action waiting for whatever comes next. Around us, all of the bodyguards and abominations rest inanimate. We’ve won… but Diab’s smirk says otherwise.

He boasts, “I have utilized the ether. I have mastered the universal solvent. I have channeled the immortal spirit of Anton Mesmer! Do you think you stand a chance against me? My power and thanatophilia has no bounds!”

He pauses for emphasis and then utters a magical phrase, “Servir a deux mains…

For a moment, nothing happens.

Suddenly, the dismembered parts, dead bodyguards, and horrific animal abominations slide across the floor from across the expanse of the large room. “Team Vicky” looks back and forth, as the parts move quickly to a spot left of the wizard. In horror, we simultaneously realize what this lunatic has in mind. The parts assemble into an abominable monstrosity the size of a house. In the center of the beast’s chest is a large maw meant to represent some kind of vagina but it looks more like the Sarlacc Pit.

Like Carrie covered in pig’s blood, True says, “Looks like we’ve been invited to the prom…”

Dream: 3/16/2014

Dream Journal

Dream: 3/16/2014

In the dream I discover my father has cancer. I immediately fly home to the United States from South Korea. This flight takes maybe five minutes. Within that time, my father agrees to go on an extreme nutritional diet instead of chemotherapy. Upon hitting American soil I phone him and we agree to meet for dinner. When I arrive at the restaurant my father is eating a steak and french fries, and I’m shocked to see he has lost a considerable amount of weight. However, the real shock is that my father looks exactly like me, but ten years younger than my current age.

I ask him about the diet and he says, “Oh, that diet is over. Besides I love a good steak.”

I find this confusing as I consider my nutrition. I say to him, “It’s difficult to eat healthy where I am.”

He says, “Where are you?”

I say, “I don’t know.”

Vicky Valentine’s Top Twenty Erotic Tips For X-Mas!

Santa

Vicky Valentine’s Top Twenty Erotic Tips

For X-Mas!

Seasons Greetings,

It’s Christmas time again. My lazy creator is being a fucktard and not writing about me, so I thought it would be nice to take matters into my own hands and write Vicky Valentine’s Top Twenty Erotic Tips For X-Mas. Here it goes:

  1. Dress like Santa. Obviously, it’s creepy shit. Especially, if you plan on having sex with an elf.
  2. Invite a transexual over for milk and cookies. Then, ask, “Have you been a good little boy or girl?”
  3. Eat some of the hallucinogenic mushrooms Santa feeds the reindeer. Then, watch Rudolph Shiny New Year and wonder what the fuck they were thinking: a clock whale, a caveman, Benjamin Franklin, and a fucking weird baby with big ears! WTF!
  4. Wrap yourself nude in a huge postal box. Mail yourself to that special lover. Better yet, invite a few of your friends to join you, and have a REALLY HOT Christmas morning. Make sure you pack some milk and cookies for the journey.
  5. Sneak into a random stranger’s house on Christmas Eve. Eat the snacks left for Santa. Then do unquestionable things with the reindeer’s carrots. Then, wonder if the family throws out the carrots or adds them to the stew.
  6. Get so mega-obliterated on Egg Nog that you attempt to do a ping-pong show at your family gathering, but your Aunt Bessie beats you to it with her new gift: a set of imported Ben-Wa Balls straight from Japan.
  7. Never buy a pet gerbil for your uncle if his name is Gary.
  8. Purchase a vibrator. Turn it on. Wrap it. Leave it under the tree buzzing. Watch your dog go crazy. Then, see who gets it as a Secret Santa. Oh! Make sure you try it out a little first!
  9. “White Elephant.” I’ll just leave it at that…
  10. Get laid. But don’t sell or pay for it (buying someone dinner or drinks obviously counts). After all, sharing is the reason for the season.
  11. Tape a mistletoe above your genitals. It’s been done before. But, it’s a classic.
  12. Bring some Christmas decorations into the sack. Decorate your lover. Roll around. Beware! You’ll be pulling tinsel and popcorn out of your ass-crack until next Easter.
  13. Build a fully functional snowman. Yes, that means penis or vagina, and an a-hole. Sell tickets to the neighbors as you try it out. It helps pay for your gifts, and your bills. Everybody wins!
  14. Orgy Nativity scene. Nuff said.
  15. Be festive. Wear a wreath cock ring. Although, things might get a little prickly.
  16. One quarter of personal spending takes place during the holiday shopping season. Don’t be like all the other bourgeoise douche bags. DIY some gifts, or give someone a hug or a kiss, or at the very least a ten minute hand job. Let’s see: 7 Uncles, 3 Aunts, Grandma… You get the idea.
  17. If you really want to misbehave get into a S&M session with the Krampus. He’s the beast who punishes naughty children. Not only do you fulfill you submissive and zoophilia tendencies at one time, he might carry you back to his lair for more action, or maybe he’ll just eat you.
  18. Elves are weird. Don’t have sex with elves.
  19. Candy cane. Think about it.
  20. Build a sex toy out of popsicle sticks, glue, glitter, pipe cleaners, pom-poms., and googly eyes. Make sure you use shellac, and watch out for splinters. After you use it, hang it on the tree.

Well. that’s it. I gotta get back to kicking’ zombie butt and being me. Happy Holidays!

Love, Vicky
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

P.S. Check out my first ten episodes at the link below!

Vicky Valentine’s Erotic Adventures Episode 13: Tic Tac

Vicky Valentine Cover 2

Vicky Valentine’s Erotic Adventures

A Neo-Noir Pulp Erotic Thriller

Episode 13: Tic Tac

 

Zombies linger everywhere in this deranged club called Le Malaise—The Sickness.

Luckily, the re-animated corpses don’t advance on us. For now, we’re safe.

Don Diab, a truly sick fucker if I’ve ever seen one, stands there like all this necrophiliac whacked-out shit is commonplace, like these weird hermaphroditic flesh-bots are part of his wife’s bridge club.

I feel tiny in a macabre world ruled by something too insane to accept. The Lady Minx’s hallucinatory magic is one thing, but this vile shit takes the fucking birthday cake. This nightmare we’ve entered at Club Sick-Fuck can’t possibly be real—it just can’t be!

Don Diab’s sinister smile reinforces my unsettled feeling as I wonder if we’ll escape this demonic hell hole. I never thought I’d say this, but I wish Wilder would walk in that door guns-a-blazing. Where is he? Why did he want us to meet him at Le Malaise? Did the Lady Minx double-cross us? Who is this Diab character? How in donkey balls does he do this creepy shit? I don’t know answers to any of these questions, but this whole situation scares the piss out of me.

After an agonizing moment meant to reinforce who’s in charge, Don Diab finally speaks in a menacing but literate voice, “Please, do not judge me by my… undead playthings, Miss Valentine. Notwithstanding this barbaric milieu, I am actually a gentleman of taste, a nobleman of various international cultures, a cavalier of disquisition, a purveyor in the cultivation of erotic significance. These are… [he pauses and makes a smug half-assed gesture toward the zombies] somewhat of a leisure pursuit, a mere curiosity really—much like the way you antediluvian people collect postal stamps or outdated currencies. I refer to them as my… chthonic ‘knickknacks.’ They are rather charming when I tell them to be pleasant. However, if I tell them to be disagreeable, they become inhospitably irate and eat flesh. They behave like Ishtar explains in The Epic of Gilgamesh.”

He pauses a moment to create pretentious Shakespearean drama. I roll me eyes.

He recites the passage from memory:

“I will knock down the Gates of the Netherworld,

I will smash the door posts, and leave the doors flat down,

and will let the dead go up to eat the living!

And the dead will outnumber the living!”

I quell the urge to kick this douche-bag in the balls. Instead, I say under my breath, “Yeah, charming like a shit in the punchbowl, or some other disgusting social faux pas…”

He hears the comment, but ignores it. I was expecting more of a reaction—maybe some angry outburst or clever retort. But, nothing. Truthfully, I’m a little disappointed. I want to get this bastard’s goat. The Lady Minx and the Blind Tiger remain silent. They stand to the right of True. The zombies look like statues, but True rocks back and forth on her heels—a nervous tic I usually see as cute, but now I worry she’ll attract unwanted attention. I give her the eye. She stops.

Diab stares blankly at me. Like a teenager glaring at her parents, I return his eye connect.

I think, “Yeah, kick him in the balls so hard his nuts come out his nose…”

I smirk.

We remain locked in a stare-down for several moments. I think of Sergio Leone—A Fistful of Zombie Nuts—this thought eases my mind.

I gain some confidence and with a proper Clint Eastwood voice I say, “There is a simple explanation for this shit. What’s the trick Diab? I’m not buying it.”

I flip him the bird for emphasis.

He ignores my middle finger and says, “Trick? Trick… you say? There is no trick. I’m not into the cheap parlor machinations of illusionism. This is no figment. I assure you. No, I prefer High Magic. I prefer nobility.”

I look at him like he’s child—now, I feel like the adult. He doesn’t appreciate my look. Ignoring his disapproval, I say, “You mean the magic of getting high? If so, the Lady Minx has some mean noble black hashish in her—“

I’m about to say ‘limo’ but he cuts me off harshly, “—Miss Valentine, I don’t do drugs. Drugs are for simpletons who can’t deal with reality. Do I look like a man who dabbles in drugs?”

I say, “Yes. Actually, I was thinking you look like a 600 year old heroin addict.”

He says nothing.

“So, what is this zombie shit? Is this reality? If so, I could do with a little hit of Mary Jane,” I say curtly.

“What is this? What magic is this… you say? Does it exist? Yes, it does. O’ Miss Valentine, it most certainly does. Magic is power. Magic is flesh. Flesh is soul. Soul is nature. I have a healthy respect for nature, and a great affection for its dark corners. I own reality, Miss Valentine. I own you.”

“Well, I don’t believe in your wizard mumbo-jumbo or its dark corners—and seriously, I don’t think you own shit,” I say through gritted teeth.

Everyone remains motionless, but the room tenses.

“How do you explain these [he gestures to his undead knickknacks]. Miss Valentine, I am no mere wizard. I am a necromancer of great power. I am a puppeteer of souls—”

“—or, a fucking fruitcake,” I interrupt. I sense the zombies ready to pounce—some of the birds struggle to be free of their putrid mouth-prisons. I feel an affinity for their plight.

He laughs and waves his hand around lackadaisically, but the gesture has an impatient edge. He says, “Sometimes, to ignorant people, the learned seem insane. I am certainly not insane. I am a highly experienced and educated man. I studied metaphysics and comparative religions at the University of Oxford centuries before you were born. I left Oxford after a dispute caused by the execution of two scholars in 1209. I cannot say I am not to blame for this misfortune. After Oxford, I attended Charles University of Prague, and after that, several other schools over many long years traveling this fine celestial body called Earth. Finally, I graduated from Harvard with honors in 1946. I have eleven scholarly degrees. I’ve traveled through over one hundred countries, and I have lived in fifteen. Yes, you could say I am a man of the world, a man of knowledge, a man beyond time—a man of reality!”

“Eleven degrees? Whoop-de-doo! I call bullshit! That would make you over eight hundred years old,” I scoff.

“And I don’t look a day over seven hundred,” he jokes. I don’t buy it.

The Lady Minx leans in close and whispers, “he da litch one… a bokor…”

I’m utterly confused by her statement. Speak English. Goddammit!

“He’s an immortal sorcerer—a lich. It rhymes with witch, “ the Lady Minx says, this time her pronunciation becomes oddly Middle American, as if her hometown is suddenly Chicago. What the fuck? Is her whole voodoo-thing an act?

Nevertheless, in many fantasy stories, like the works of Robert E. Howard or H.P. Lovecraft, a lich is an evil magician who has bound his or her soul to an undead corpse, thereby achieving a type of immortality—as if the zombies weren’t bad enough, we gotta deal with an eight hundred year old psychotic librarian.

Suddenly, my gut tenses—Fuck! I realize the Blind Tiger has my gun. He took it when we entered the Lady Minx’s limousine. Mother Fucker! All have is the tiny knife in my boot. One knife against about fifty zombies, twelve bodyguards, a Haitian Creole voodoo mistress who may or may not be from Chicago, her blind-as-a-bat-but-bigger-than-a-brick-shithouse chauffeur, and this crazy centenarian professor who can raise the dead. Great. Fucking great.

I tense. Instead of an attack, Don Diab claps his hands three times. I wait for the zombies to lunge, but it never happens. Instead, three zombies wheel out a shiny metal cart—bound to the contraption is a handsome nude man with brown shoulder length hair.

We make strong eye contact. I feel something down there—some call it love, but I prefer to call it my ‘getting busy’ feeling. I see no fear in those eyes, only confidence. I see a man—who in other circumstances I would find extremely attractive—close his eyes and start mumbling unintelligible words that sound like Latin. I take a look at his cock—his eyes ARE closed after all. Not too bad. Not too bad at all. Fuck! Only I would think about sex while facing certain death—this isn’t some macabre version of the Dating Game, and he’s not Contestant Number 2.

As I wonder about the fucked up things that go on in my head, Diab says, “Let me introduce Mr. Jonathan Crepax: art historian, occult expert, rare book seller, and obtainer of antiquities.”

Diab motions to the zombie audience and they clap on cue.

OK? So, this IS a sick version of the Dating Game!

Diab says, “Mr. Crepax, praying to some god won’t save you. I want information. For your sake, I prefer it sooner than later. I want the location of the Anthroparian Book of Zosimos. I want it now.”

“I’m not telling you shit Diab,” the handsome man says. He just got a little hotter.

The cart is a torture device meant to keep the victim’s arms and legs bound, sprawled out in a X formation. Underneath the victim’s genitals is a large metal bowl—probably meant to collect blood. This doesn’t look good for Contestant Number 2, and it certainly doesn’t look good for Miss Valentine either. Now, I have to save this dope, because I’m a sucker for a good-looking damoiseau in distress, especially one with such a beautiful cock.

“Now, Mr. Crepax we’re going to play a little game. The game is called, ‘Lose Your Testicles—Lose Your Soul.’ It’s a two-part contest, and this is what will occur.”

Don Diab drops his tuxedo pants to show a shriveled little pecker. I really small dong.

I burst out laughing. I can’t help it.

He ignores me, pulls a tiny vial out of his epicurean tuxedo jacket, drinks it, jerks his prick a bit, and finally the little thing—after some coaxing—gets hard. After this little [and I mean little] ritual, he says, “First, I will sodomize you. I will steal your life force. While I do this, one of my undead assistants will place a bag over your scrotum.”

He gestures to one of the stiffs who is an undead combination between the old comedian Phyllis Diller and the punk rocker Iggy Pop. The zombie presents him with a small cage covered in a purple velvet cloth and a jock strap-looking leather bag with straps. I hear scratching from inside the cage. I put two and two together. My stomach clenches.

Diab pulls the cloth away revealing two small rodents. He says, “These are nutria, Mr. Crepax. Nasty little creatures. I put them in this leather bag, and we strap it to your genitals. They will eat through your body to escape the bag. As they tunnel their way out, you will die in excruciating pain. As you die, I will commandeer your life energy through my magnificent cock [I roll my eyes again]. I will literally pilfer your lifetime. I don’t think you have the moxie to resist me,” Diab finishes his unholy diatribe.

A few zombies place the two nutria into the bag. The aquatic rats visibly strain to fight free of their leather prison. Diab hovers the bag over Contestant Number 2’s balls. Oh shit! There goes a perfectly nice set of marbles.

“I’ve taken many virile souls, Mr. Crepax. You are a mere poltroon, a coward. You won’t last long. Any modicum of strength you have will quickly be exhausted once my pets are through with you—and if they don’t kill you, my cock will. My knickknacks, the ones I fuck each and every night, dote on my lovely dingus almost as  much as they adore man-blood. That bowl under your buttocks will be tonight’s feast, as well as these two young ladies. Will you stay ambulant through all of this? Now, tell me. Where is the Zosimos artifact?” Diab asks.

It looks like it’s now or never. I have to make a move.

The Lady Minx grabs my arm holding me back, and whispers, “dah Vickah one… say dis do um… ‘Zozo ou gro tankou yon tik tak’…”

I repeat her words with force,  thinking it sounds like some pretty badass magic spell. Then, I ask her under my breath, “What the hell did I say?”

She snickers mischievously with a twinkle in her eye and says with that out-of-place Chicago accent, “It’s Creole for ‘You’re hung like a tic-tac’…”

Dream: 8/28/2013

Dream Journal

Dream: 8/28/2013

I’m in this weird basement that sits next to a tropical beach. I decide to hit the sand, so I run out there naked. After I get there I realize it isn’t such a great idea to run out in the buff. I attempt to cover myself. Then I realize I’m alone on the beach, so what’s the point? Before I can register this, a woman appears. She is a very beautiful Iranian woman. She tells me she loves me. I get confused. We decide to go back to the basement. We enter the place and I see that it’s actually three rooms. In the middle room three old men are playing poker. One of them is my grandfather. The second man is the actor Christopher Lee. The third man is a stranger. They ignore us. I glance into the room to my right and the opening is dark and foreboding. Something heinous goes on in there. I turn to my left and knock on the other door. No one answers. We enter that room and I realize it’s my bedroom. It’s decorated as if I’m a child. The woman tells me she loves me again and wants to make love. I’m not sure I love her, but she is very beautiful. We collapse on the bed. I enter her. It is a strange feeling somewhere between complete ecstasy and utter disappointment. I don’t have time to think about it. My mother enters the room with a vacuum and starts cleaning. The woman slips under the covers to hide but I’m still inside her. I speak to my mother as if I’m a child. My mother ignores us.

Identity In Transit: Illusion



Identity in Transit is a serial that will eventually be compiled and published in book form.

As an artist/writer/thinker I fight against the restrictions that society imposes upon me. These blog entries will define that battle by illustrating the extreme demands of the creative lifestyle, the trials and tribulations of an international resident, and the disappointments that lead to self-realization. Part mystical journey. Part social commentary. This philosophical ‘journal’ will attempt to come to a conclusion about what drives the artistic individual to create.

Episode 9: Illusion

Our civilization thrives on illusion. We love to be fooled. We often suspend our disbelief in very extreme ways. The more grand the illusion, the more we love to pretend it’s real. We adore famous people simply because they’re famous and they have famous problems. We love to think of them as humanitarians, as benevolent people who got lucky—the illusion tells us we might get lucky too, so we accept them as our gods, because we could be one of them someday.

In our society, fame and infamy are identical. We love murderers because they have the audacity to murder. We love con-men, bamboozlers, and hornswogglers. We love politicians who kiss babies and then destroy indigenous societies in the name of progress. These same men destroy our environment, then sell the carnage back to us at top dollar. We adore the “SALE.” We love discounts on insanely marked-up products that give us cancer. We love applause for applause’s sake. We give killers standing ovations at rallies. We love democracy. We love the spectacle. We love the “reality” show. We love humiliating each other on the “idol” contest. We love the breaking “news” story. We love when the interviewer attacks the interviewed. We love to see people squirm.

Most of all, despite what we tell ourselves rationally—WE LOVE DEATH, MEANINGLESS FAME, and DIVERSION. Otherwise, the headlines wouldn’t be full of stories concerning crap like this: a famous sports star’s infidelity, a famous music group who’ve been disbanded for 20 years have a famous reunion show, a famous recipe for cupcakes, an infamous cooking mistake that could make your food lethal, the awkward things that happened at a famous beauty pageant, six stories about a famous video music awards show, a piece about infamous dogs, a search for an infamous missing mountain climber, beauty secrets of a famous 63-year-old model, unbelievable infamous items left behind on airplanes, the diet secrets of an infamous woman who once weighed 255 pounds, a 12-year-old boy who was taken off of life support (nothing famous or infamous about that, it’s just plain sad), infamous NSA employees tracking former lovers using the agency’s spy equipment, infamous shots fired at a UN vehicle, and a story about infamous teen pregnancy (note* I actually took these from today’s news headlines. They’re real.).

Yes, we love fame and infamy. But we love death the most. Death is scary. Therefore, we need to fool ourselves. We love to look, but we hate ourselves for looking. It’s in our nature.

It’s too scary to acknowledge what’s happening in the media. If we admitted this, most of us would probably jump off a bridge or drink the Kool-aid.

Instead, we crucify our prophets because they reveal our ignorance, and we hate them for it.

The artist/writer/thinker is a type of prophet and that is why they are so dangerous to the spectacle. They have the ability to rend the veil of illusion through allegory. Our media is divisive. The artist/writer/thinker wants to bring people together, not contribute to the schism. They know the only way to deconstruct the illusion is to use the same tools the illusionists use to build the illusion, and then turn it back on them.

The artist/writer/thinker plays with image, language, or symbol, and turns it upon itself. They infect the spectacle with a different type of illusion. This works like a thought virus—it mutates the unconscious of those who accept the established culture without them knowing it. It becomes a secret vehicle which contaminates the illusion. Those who don’t understand this, don’t understand art. They may appreciate it as part of the spectacle, but they don’t really understand the significance of the work. Picasso deconstructed space. Van Gogh deconstructed light. Warhol deconstructed fame. Burroughs deconstructed linear narrative. Duchamp deconstructed art. They all did this simply and masterfully. That’s why we consider them geniuses. They completely transformed the consciousness of the participants in  the modern spectacle. What they do isn’t really “ART.” It’s more than storytelling, image-making, or illusion.

It’s “MAGIC.”

The spectacle is an ever-changing network of consensus knowledge. Societies have been using the spectacle since antiquity, but the true creator, the true magician, is always trying to fight this established delusion. In the past the spectacle was the idea of human sacrifice, or a flat Earth, or a paradisiacal Heaven. The true creator uses what the alchemist’s called the AZOTH, or the universal fluid. It’s a malleable substance you can’t see. They use this substance against the spectacle—which attempts to constrain freedom, transform it into heinous bonds, and then tells us magic doesn’t exist, as they use this very force to enslave us. This is why the alchemists put their knowledge of this force into a coded language. They fear persecution.

Like the alchemist, the artist/writer/thinker shows us magic does exist.

Magic is a window. The more the artist/writer/thinker opens this window, the more dangerous they become. The window is a crack in the spectacle of illusion which also helps us transform our cultural identity.

Dream: 8/19/2013

Dream Journal

Dream: 8/19/2013

I used to be in a couple of avant-garde rock bands when I was 18. In Detroit, Michigan USA, this is what you do to pass the time.

In the dream, I’m an middle-aged adult. I’m in a cabin near Port Austin, Michigan – a typical vacation spot for Metro Detroit-ers. It’s more of a trailer that has been transformed into a cabin. You know the type—ramshackle rooms haphazardly built on top of each other; each more ramshackle and precariously constructed than the last.

I’m with my very first high school band. It’s the same line-up but we’re middle-aged. We’re supposed to have a re-union show at a dive venue in Detroit, but we realize we’ve never been famous so why bother because nobody will care. We decide to do it anyway. We begin practicing but we haven’t played in twenty years and we can’t remember the tunes. I say, “Screw the old songs. Let’s make new ones.” They say, “We can’t do that. People remember the old ones.” I say, “No one remembers the old ones.” They say, “The old ones remember the old ones.” As usual, I get confused by these conundrums and their double-speak.

We practice and practice but we can’t get it right. The same old tension between members returns—our egos fight each other. Despite my desire to relive my past, I decide it isn’t worth going backwards. I quit the band. It’s quite dramatic.

Two of the members don’t seem to care. They invite me to another cabin. This one is dingy, dark and ominous. One of my former bandmates tells me his girlfriend will be joining us. I realize maybe this evening could turn dirty because she was known to be promiscuous. I didn’t think she was attractive when I was younger, and I certainly don’t now. I turn down the sexual opportunity. I tell the other band mate I don’t want to do it. He says, “We need her for another band!” I say, “I’m done with bands.”

Vicky Valentine’s Erotic Adventures Episode 12: Dead Finks Don’t Talk

Vicky Valentine Cover 2

Vicky Valentine’s Erotic Adventures

A Neo-Noir Pulp Erotic Thriller

Episode 12: Dead Finks Don’t Talk

 

After grabbing “da chicken fo eatin” the Lady Minx leads us to a darker section of the New Orleans French Quarter—a speakeasy block way off the strip. As we depart from the tourist area, the clip joint clubs with their barkers fade from view being replaced by raunchy trannie bars and dilapidated warehouses.

Finally, after circling the block for what seems like an hour, we stop in front of an abandon power plant. A lone shadow of a man signals to the limo. Our chauffeur, the Blind Tiger, flashes the limo’s brights, The shadow signals back with two blasts from a tiny but powerful LED flashlight.

Here we are. We’ve arrived at the signless underground cabaret the Lady Minx simply calls, “Le Malaise…” This is where we’ll meet Wilder. This is where we’ll get some answers.

The Lady Minx takes a last puff off her opium pipe and motions for us to exit the vehicle. As we do, I whisper to True, “Not too sure about entering a club named after the French word for ‘sickness.’ Stay on your toes.”

She nods an affirmative.

As we walk up to the silhouetted figure I consider our erotic incident with the Lady Minx. I’ve witnessed some strange shit in my time, but that shit, that magic I witnessed in the limo was truly mysterious. I’ve never believed in magic. I’m a convergent thinker. I’m analytical. I analyze the facts and reach logical conclusions. I do well with science and math. I’m straightforward. I believe in reason and I’m a skeptic. Magic doesn’t make sense to me. It contradicts rationality.

My lesbian lover, however, is a divergent thinker. She’s creative. She tends to throw the rules out the window. She’s artistic and wants to express herself. She has a strong sense of faith—spiritually magical to a fault. She’s a believer in the mystical. She believes in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny—for Christ’s sake!

We’re two opposite halves of the same brain. With this incident, I have to admit my skepticism has been shaken. Was the Lady Minx’s magic real? Or, was it some kind of drug hallucination? Either way it’s unsettling.

As we pass, the “shadow man” lights up a cigarette revealing his face. It would have been better for him to remain in the dark—his ugly mug is full of jagged scars.

The Lady Minx says something too fast and quiet for us to make out, but the man seems to understand, so he lets us enter the building. Inside we’re greeted by an attractive woman dressed like some weird ragamuffin French maid. Her make-up resembles the heavy-handed overwrought cosmetics of a China doll. Her skin is as white as the dead, and her cheeks recall the defined red circles of a Twister mat. She has a hollow look, as if her soul has been stretched to the breaking point like an aged brittle rubber-band about to snap.

She introduces herself, “I’m Bianca the Coat Check Girl.”

We nod in unison but say nothing. Her faraway look disturbs me.

She doesn’t take our coats. Instead, she adds, “Welcome to Le Malaise. Will you please answer THE important question?”

The Lady Minx nods. We just watch.

Bianca’s voice takes on power as she asks her enigmatic riddle:

“The key to life and death is everywhere to be found, but if you do not find it in your own house, you will find it nowhere. Yet, it is before everyone’s eyes; no one can live without it; everyone has used it. The poor usually possess more of it than the rich; children play with it in the streets. The meek and uneducated esteem it highly, but the privileged and learned often throw it away. When rejected, it lies dormant in the bowels of the earth. It is the only thing from which the Philosopher’s Stone can be prepared, and without it, no noble metal can ever be created. What is it?”

The Lady Minx seems to understand the riddle. She smiles confidently and says, “it da stone dat idn’t da stone… mon amie… Aye correct… non?”

Robotically, Bianca says, “You may pass.”

We enter a maze of dark candlelit hallways with glow-in-the-dark murals of demons and witchdoctors, tormented souls and strange animals. As we descend stairwell after stairwell I get the sense we’re entering a type of Hell, and once we finally reach our destination the true Inferno will be revealed.

Finally, after walking for several minutes through the heinous murals we arrive at a barred door with two bouncer-types blocking it. They look mean, but I know what a good kick “in the balls” can do, so I’m not frightened by these twerps.

They say nothing. We say nothing. They look at the Lady Minx. She returns their intimidating stares and after a moment they open the door. A bright purple and red light escapes the portal like condemned spirits gleefully absconding their damnation. We hesitate a moment. I look to Minx and her chauffeur—they look frightened. Until now I wasn’t nervous, but seeing them with fear etched into their brow has made me reassess this situation. Why in the world would Wilder want us to come to place like this? I have no time for an answer—the bouncers shove us inside and bar the door.

It takes me a moment for my eyes to adjust to the bright lights, but when they finally do I wish they hadn’t.

The room is large, almost cavernous. Some of the power plant equipment has been removed, but other machines have been installed in their place. These machines, however, are not used to generate power; they’re mechanized iron torture devices. I recognize Head Crushers, Cat’s Paws, Judas’ Chair, and Spanish Donkeys among several models I can’t identify (I’m interested in weird stuff—so yes, I know of these machines… get over it).

Some of the machines have unfortunate residents occupying them. Other machines have nude hermaphrodites with strange feathered and boned headdresses operating them. They have arcane glyphs painted on their bodies with dried blood and cock-rings imprisoning their penises. I scan the remainder of the room only to be horrified even more. In the center of the warehouse space is an enormous ramshackle wooden stage built from scrapped houses, aged palates, and human bones. On the stage, several naked men and women fornicate (that means ‘FUCKING”). Without thinking about it, I move closer to the stage, weaving my way through the many onlookers, dancers, and hanger-ons. An appalling smell assaults my nose—the scent of death.

When I get close enough to finally see what’s happening, I witness something I will NEVER EVER FORGET. I’m not even sure if I’m actually seeing this or it’s some kind of spell, but the naked people on the stage are not living. They’re zombies who’ve had their eyes sewn shut and blackbirds stuffed into their mouths. Sewn in place, the poor living birds twitch and struggle, but the zombies don’t seem to notice. They’re too busy engaging in some kind of horrific automaton orgy. Some of the rotting corpses are missing arms or legs. Other undead have been repaired with limbs from the opposite sex. A few are women who’ve had one or several penises haphazardly sewn to their vaginas with twine and rusty wire. Some of the men have been castrated and rotting arms replace their manhoods. Many of these men are playing hide the salami with monkeys and dogs. Large wooden crucifixes and other random religious icons are strewn about the stage. The whole mad scene invokes Joel-Peter Witkin— the renegade photographer who shot still-life art of dead bodies.

What the fuck! This is completely and utterly WRONG!

My heart beats loudly syncing with the strong drum and bass House music. I feel dizzy, as the music over takes me.

I feel True press her face into my back. She whispers, “Is this real? Is this actually happening?”

I whisper back, “We need to get the fuck out of here. Now!”

Before we can do anything. The music stops dead. The crowd turns to us. Every-mother-fucking-last-one-of-them point at us like the aliens in the 1970’s remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

We stop. We’re fucked. I look for Minx and Tiger but they’ve disappeared. Great… Diddle our doorknobs and then leave us to be fucked some more by a bunch of undead trannie-grannies.

Without warning, a man enters the stage from behind the curtain. I think of the wizard from Oz.

In a quiet humble voice he says, “danh-hwe…”

The phrase unnaturally echoes through the makeshift auditorium.

Suddenly, the zombies on stage drop to the floor, their animation banished by a seemingly frail white man in an epicurean tuxedo and a top hat. He is weak in body, but his eyes rimmed in black circles and his mouth wrinkled by years of vile incantations, hold a power I’ve never seen.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, as if she appears out of thin air like a vampire, the Lady Minx whispers into my ear, “da Vickah one… meet da Don Diab… he da master ov da magick…”

True mutters, “Vicky… I’m afraid.”

I say, “True… There are scarier things in this world than pervert zombies. There are men like him.”

The Lady Minx says, “day is da ded wonze… an he dare lord…”

I shiver at her words. Don Diab looks right through me and says in perfect English as if he just stepped out of Yale, “Hello Victoria Valentine. Do you like my… toys? Everybody knows dead finks don’t talk.”

Vicky Valentine’s Erotic Adventures Episode 11: Filet-o-Fish

Vicky Valentine Cover 2

“enchanté mon amie…” 

By some supernatural cue, the atmosphere in the limousine changes from a thick sexual tension where this psycho witch threatens to disembowel us at any second, into a far different feeling where her ethereal sexual charms overcome our misgivings and the air becomes charged with excitement.

Lady Minx smiles. I study her intently as the black hash smoke swirls around us creating weird personifications of mythical animals best left unseen.

Minx is perhaps the most overtly sexual, and at the same time, creepy woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of crossing paths with—and believe me, I’ve seen some doozies. Her sexuality is more than eccentric; it’s not of any garden variety. No way—she isn’t pretty exactly, or mildly erotic, or even attractive in any sense of the word. No, her beauty is so repellent, it says, “I’ve seen horrors too terrible to imagine, debaucheries too perverse, nightmares so maddening they’d make Francis Bacon scream REDRUM, piss his pants, and cry for his mommie like a snot-nosed punk.” No, she has the “I get off on pigeon bones and blood” variety. Her beauty recalls the rot all things must surrender to in death. That’s her. That’s the Lady Minx. Her smack-addict physique hints at malnutrition despite her tiny reptilian potbelly indicating she’s ate an entire chicken this morning. Her reeking “slut butter” BO tells us her hands have recently been to the wilds of her vagina and she probably fingers herself all day. Her thrift store fashion is a religion in itself, which tells of something diabolical churning deep inside her, like an innocent looking into an abyss. Like Nietzsche, her abyss stares back. She’s perverse in the most horrific alien extreme. I’ve seen some crazy shit in my time, but her sexuality threatens to make me pull my hair out, stab a pencil into my eye, and enjoy doing it.

Yes, I take this woman very seriously.

As I assess her, she takes an immediate shine to True. It seems like the hashish smoke has begun to do her bidding; the personifications animate around True as if they’re making love to her. It’s like some weird bestiality scenario.

For a moment I think I’m hallucinating, but then I get frightened because maybe—just maybe—the smoke is actually doing her will and I’m not seeing things.

She touches True’s kinky hair as if it were a golden prize.

I think of Rapunzel and Rumpelstiltskin. This sends chills down my spine.

“u gotta da pretty hair maya thompson…” She whispers as she strokes it.

True looks uncomfortable but she says nothing.

“aye betch u gotta pretty down be-low too…” She snickers and then adds, “we gonna make da sexy hoodoo luv… yu… me… and da vicky one…”

At this, she casually removes her dress. I’m not shocked. I’ve seen tits before. And for her, she seems relieved, as if she’s more comfortable without clothing. I will admit; this crazy woman is something to behold. Her skin is the color of licorice. Her breasts are small but the tiny dark nipples stand high like Hershey’s Kisses. Her legs are impossibly long; it takes me several moments to span their length.

At this, she turns to me with a wicked smile. It disarms me and I feel charmed by her magic. She does the same to True. Our situation recalls the snake and charmer story, although I’m not certain which of us is the snake.

Now, we’re her playthings.

“now, da laydee minx gonna do da magic spell… now da laydee minx gonna do da west afrikah dahomeyan vodun… haaaaaaaaaaaa…” She hisses ‘ha’ as if the word has special meaning, like a word of gods.

I’m scared shitless but I can’t resist. As True and I start to mechanically stroke her lovely body, Lady Minx taps on the window of the limo. As if in a dream, I hear someone open the trunk, some shuffling ensues, and then the trunk closes. Next, I hear some footsteps, and then the door of the limo opens. The sun violently shreds the darkness of our sanctuary and I instantly feel an affinity for vampires. A gargantuan silhouette, the chauffeur Blind Tiger, hands Minx a cage. In it, shuffles around a tiny varmint. It’s a young nutria; a type of aquatic rat.

“we gotta make da gris-gris… like da voodoo queen marie laveau… da people visit er grave more den dat white singin man elvis presley… an he hadda demone en dat boy…”

Inside I snicker at her comment about the King, but all the while I stroke the witch’s body dreading to see what will happen to the tiny creature in the cage.

Next, she reaches under her seat and produces a few items: a Swiss army knife, white chalk, and a tiny paper cup. With supernatural agility she opens the cage, sweeps up the rat, and in one clean motion—like she’s done this a million times before—she slits the poor beast’s throat.

She bleeds the nutria’s running ichor into the cup and then quickly discards the beast like a used tissue. As I continue to fondle her, I notice the cup is actually a Buzz Lightyear Dixie cup. This realization adds to the macabre horror of the scene.

She reaches her clean hand under the seat again and brings out a small vial of milky white liquid. Is it sperm? Breast milk? Some other foul bodily fluid? Who knows? She pours some of the greasy solution onto her hand which acts like a painter’s palette. She uses the runny greasepaint to place arcane markings and letters upon her breasts and chest. She orders us to remove our clothing and we heed her command like zombies without objection. She traces symbols on our bodies too. My imagination runs wild while her cold fingers trace our contours and it feels as if the devil has touched us.

After she finishes her chore, she uses the nutria blood to draw a crooked six-pointed star on the floor of the limo. I think to myself, “Boy, that’s going to cost a pretty penny to get that shit out the upholstery.” It’s at this time that I notice a similar faded marking on the ceiling of the vehicle and another on the bench seat across from us. I guess she’s been busy.

Lady Minx says a bunch of Creole gibberish neither of us understands and then everything changes.

In a dreamy haze, as if I’m witnessing the event from outside my body, we begin to make love. It’s a strange time, like a demented Girls Gone Wild New Orleans. Lady Minx obviously prefers True because she focuses her sexual curiosity on my young lover. I don’t feel jealous. I feel scared. I’m worried what will happen when this whole weird incident comes to its conclusion.

In a wicked voice, as if she was channeling some demon Minx says, “now missy maya u gonna give me dat filet-o-fish between da pretty leg… and ah I gonna suck out da fishy bones…”

Her comment is so wrong I almost can’t believe she said it.

She positions herself between True’s spread legs.

“gimme da wet pussy, pleez…” And with that, she dives in.

As I mechanically finger the voodoo lady’s bottom, obscene slurping sounds fill the limo, and True’s moans increase in desperation. The one-way windows thankfully conceal this satanic sexual ritual from bystanders. But I have to admit it’s hot thinking people are passing the limo with no idea of what shenanigans are going on inside. This is a strange experience and I feel conflicting emotions. On one hand, this whole event is sexier than Ozzy biting the head off a vampire bat. On the other, I feel like it’s going to take a long time to wipe this shit from memory.

The slurping increases. True orgasms. I fist the witch. And the spell comes to conclusion.

Lady Minx leans back from True’s soaked cunt exhausted from her spell casting, and says, “now, aye gonna take u do da german… but first we grab da chicken fo eatin…”

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