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A tiramisu ass growls up at the moonless ceiling. Growls twice then slams down on a pair of panna cotta legs which squirm and moan and bend all the way back into a deliciously impressive banana split—fudge-topped, cream-filled, a red-ripe California cherry on bottom . . .
A tiramisu ass growls up at the moonless ceiling. Growls twice then slams down on Sophie’s crème brûlée pelvis with a “Fuck all of you motherfuckers!” lower back spasm—superhairy ass cheeks contracting, groaning, contracting, frosted fingernails scratching the really hot fudge off our favorite superhero’s spine, succubus fangs sinking themselves into his caramel jugular and slurping it all right up, up, up . . .
The ass cheek contractions gradually subsiding Giacomo Jones pulls out his cinnamon cannoli with a really loud pop. He leans back on his knees and tugs the overflowing condom off his still very hard cock. He aims, he aims, he aims and throws the yogurt grenade across the 3 am shadows. A moment’s worry tickling our favorite superhero because he definitely can’t be sure if all his unborn children made it into the trashcan or not. Just like he still definitely can’t be sure if the first five overflowing condoms of the night made it in or not. Because there’s like obviously no way to tell. Not in this muggy darkness . . .
Dizzy with sweat Giacomo stands up on the wet sheets and reaches over into the top shelf of his IKEA dresser. He tosses aside star-spangled merino wool socks, Superman boxer briefs. He digs into the black box of wholesale condoms and growls to himself while Sophie Strudel fondles and kneads his cookie dough nutsack, fondles and licks the mousse off his scrotum, fondles and peaks between his chocolate chip thighs at the 42-inch flatscreen up on the wall in front of the sofa bed—the TV muted but still flickering with the only channel that Giacomo Jones ever watches at home (the Discovery Channel, obviously). Propped up on her biscotti elbows, the sepia streetlight sliding down her peach cobbler breasts, Sophie sneaks a peak at the TV while causally fondling the pair of butterscotch truffles swinging back and forth over her forehead—back and forth, back and forth. She nibbles on these chewy bonbons and stares out at a burnt black wasteland with no trees, no farms, no cuter than cute sheep—the desolation just stretching and stretching and doing nothing but stretching until it like totally blurs away into myopic vagueness at our mind’s end . . . Sophie smiling and thinking that she might have probably definitely found some new real estate for her dad to develop. Sophie biting down on one of the chewy bonbons. Giacomo flinching. Giacomo flinching and trying his very best to unroll a new condom down his cock’s superhairy shaft. Oops, wrong way. He flicks the condom over and tries again. Perfect. Chewing on her wine-black lips Sophie lays back down on the sticky sheets, eyes closed, eyes totally closed as Giacomo kneels in front of her, coughs, coughs twice and swallows a tablespoon of Tabasco vomit. Because they probably definitely shouldn’t have gone to the Drunken Clinamen after dinner. And they probably definitely shouldn’t have had all those tequila shots. Ugh, definitely not. Even though both of them had like definitely needed something to help them relax and unwind after getting caught up in that remodeling project. In that intimate cage fight. Especially Giacomo, who finally realized how shamefully out of shape he was when he could like barely finish the two- or three-hour piggyback ride he’d been kind enough to force on Sophie after flipping their table over and disfiguring Carl’s annoyingly attractive face. Giacomo pulling Sophie by her milk chocolate hair and hoisting her over the chitchatting couples to the coat check, then hoisting her through the swinging doors, across the carbonara kitchen counter and out through the back door into a really smelly, really tight alley tunnel. Running from the maître d’ and his mustache. Running from the fucking Po-po . . . Oh boy, for a second there Giacomo like actually thought he was back in Chicago. Just another South Side dash and dine. Oh jeez, for a second there Sophie like actually thought she was back in theatre class. Just another student-run dress rehearsal . . . But after all that, they had like definitely needed, definitely deserved, a drink or four or five . . .
Our favorite superhero coughs and lifts his kinda shaven face. Tries his very best to focus on the orange and white vintage poster above the sofa bed—The Good, the Bad and the Ugly—Giacomo’s favorite movie. The only movie he ever watches. On fucking principle . . . Giacomo nodding to the gunslingers on the wall, tipping his invisible hat to good ol’ Clint then narrowing his mountain goat eyes and wiping a few more dribbles of Tabasco vomit off his prickly chin. He swallows his nausea away and poke-a-pokes Sophie’s key lime love handles. Waits for her to turn over on her cheesecake stomach and prop a blueredyellow Superman pillow underneath her rhubarb hips. Lights flash across the moonless ceiling. Sirens blare through the studio apartment. Giacomo Jones gritting his canines, powering up his superhuman groin, taking aim and slowly, slowly squeezing forward as an ambulance screams up 1st avenue . . .
Another muggy hour comes and goes. Another condom overflows . . .
Panting just as hard as her almost-charred great-grandparents panted during the Dresden firestorm Sophie reaches for the black box of wholesale condoms and pushes Giacomo down on his Nutella-smeared back. Sophie smiling a Delilah kind of smile as she then rips the wrapper with her glow-in-the-dark teeth . . . Watching her sit down on his still very hard cock, watching her greengold lamb eyes roll back into her funnel cake head, Giacomo Jones gets the really queasy feeling that there’s like definitely something alive and moving underneath all those layers of laughter. Even though he definitely can’t be sure what or why or how come . . . Giacomo sneezing, sneezing twice and shoving his cinnamon cannoli all the way up in there. Watching Sophie bite down on her wine-black lips. Watching her pineapple freckles scatter like Dippin’ Dots across her moaning face. Hands pressing down on his buttery belly. Fingers pinch-a-pinching his brownie-sized nipples. Someone grinding and grinding against his Mississippi mud pie pubes . . .
Who knows how many overflowing condoms later, Sophie rolls off the sofa bed, picks up her smartphone, and while texting or typing or doing something other than watching her California toes, gracefully trips on a pile of programming manuals, gracefully hits her head on the bathroom door, and gracefully faceplants in the nude—sepia sweat glistening down her custard-creased butt crack as she gracefully pulls herself up on the toilet bowl. In a hot daze, in a cold sweat, our favorite superhero staggers over to the refrigerator, pours himself an extra-large glass of milk, chugs it, then waddles back over to the only window in this totally cramped studio apartment. He rests his bulging bronze forehead on the glass. Wipes the steam away and hears Sophie walk out of the bathroom, without flushing. Then he hears her slip on her goldgreen dress (a wine-black bullseye right below her bellybutton thanks to that intimate food fight). Hears her pull on her red fur coat, her red ushanka cap with the earflaps folded up. Hears her say that she has to go now. That she can’t stay the night. Not this time, the first time. Giacomo groaning and growling as a lavender snare hooks itself onto his walnut nostrils. As someone reaches round and round with a cashmere glove. As someone strokes and strokes Giacomo’s still very hard cock until he squeezes out a violent cum blast against the windowpane . . . When he’s done, when she’s done, Sophie pats his Reese’s cup nutsack, bites his crunchy ears and whispers that she’ll see him at the office—“Oh and by the way, I finished the website. See ya, boss.” Giacomo nodding but definitely not turning. Not even when he hears the door latch shut behind him. Because Giacomo Jones is looking twentysomething stories down at the florescent hospital across the street. Because Giacomo Jones is looking twentysomething stories down under its sterile surface. And what does our favorite superhero see down there, like all the way down under the Island Kingdom? Well obviously at first all he sees is concrete and grease. And obviously under that all he sees is sewage and crime. And obviously under that all he sees is a racist topsoil. And obviously under that all he sees is money and sex. And obviously under that all he sees are bureaucratic worms. And obviously under that all he sees is family and faith. But what our favorite superhero is really looking at is what’s under all that. Obviously. Because what’s obviously under all that is like way worse than any venereal disease or any jobless vacation. Way worse than any trailer park foreclosure or any Beverly Hills bankruptcy. Way worse than any eating disorder or any cognitive dissonance. Way worse than any inebriated idealism or any consumer overdose. Way worse than any post-Reagan state of apathy or any 24/7 surveillance matrix. Way worse than any centrally planned famine or any free-market failure. Way worse than any Masonic world order or any hip hop Illuminati. Way worse than any multinational swindler or any Mormon swinger. Way worse than any Zionist redneck or any jihadist bully. Way worse than any Christian slave or pagan renegade. Way worse than any sleepwalking atheist. Because what’s obviously under all that is a disgusting lifestyle. A revoltingly vulgar rehashing of the human brain. Consciousness shared, tagged, diluted. Because what’s obviously under all that is the natural selection of capital accumulation. Genetic drift of greed—neurotic mutations. Biomechanical anxiety and designer babies. Because what our favorite superhero obviously sees down there, like all the way down under the Island Kingdom, is the wireless nursery for a why-not-me species. It’s the social media spawning grounds for a get-rich-or-die-trying generation. It’s the open-source laboratory for the millennial monsters! AH! NO! FUCK SHIT FUCK! Because that’s obviously what our favorite superhero sees down there . . .
Squeezing the last drops of gooier than gooey semen out of his almost-flaccid cock Giacomo Jones sneezes, sneezes twice and picks up his Superman comforter off the graphic novel-cluttered floor. He hugs his favorite blanky tight to his superhairy chest and falls into his really wet sofa bed. He slaps the pinkwhite dandruff off the pillow, then reaches for his smartphone. Hears it fall behind the IKEA dresser with a scary crack-crack. Way too tired to look for it, way too tired to pick it up and set his alarm, Giacomo shrugs, shivers, and kinda but not really watches the Discovery Channel while he flip-a-flips through tonight’s comic book (Transmetropolitan, obviously). He flip-a-flips until his dopamine-heavy eyelids start to fall totally shut. But right before our favorite superhero passes out he realizes with a sweaty sniffle that they like never even kissed. Like not even once! Like not even a single sugary peck on one of his salty cheeks . . .
Twentysomething stories below, on the freeze-dried surface, another ambulance screams up 1st avenue. Sirens blaring. Lights flashing. Screams and dies . . .
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