Cuckoo's Nest

"Now back to the task at hand, Rhonda." How are we gonna fuck your Fissure of Sylvius, little lady? Last time I checked, that delectable crevice is part of your brain. A very dark, delicious warm, moist, willing and able part of your brain. But how are we going fuck you there?"

"Not to worry, mein fuhrer. When it comes to brain-porking, I am hardly a virgin." Rhonda said. "See that copper plate on the left side of my head, right above my ear?"

Spivey had some difficulty locating said plate underneath Rhonda's long silky black hair. Finally, he brushed her hair aside and found the plate in question. "Eureka. I have found it!" he said, in true Archimedean fashion. "Now somebody hand me a 1/8 inch-bit power drill so that I can unscrew this sucker."

"No mein furher!" Rhonda McMurphy told the Woody Allen's Institute's Director of Admissions. "My boyfriend never could wait for the plate to be removed, so we finally made it a twist-off. Just unscrew it. just as though it were the gas tank cover for your car.

Spivey did so and was greeted by a pulsing portion of Rhonda's wet and sticky brain. He knew that he was looking as the fissure of Sylvius of Rhonda's cerebrum, just as advertised. He noted that there was a tunnel branching off into the darkness. "What's this?" he asked, the prospective inmate.

"Oh, that's a side tunnel that goes straight to the pleasure centers in the my midbrain." Rhonda said. "There has to something in it for me to get skull-fucked, you know."

"Fair enough," Spivey said. "By the way what possessed you to allow your boyfriend to mutilate your brain in this way?"

"What, is it so bad? Lots of girls get mutilated by their boyfriends. Lower-back tattoos are just one example."

"Point taken, my dear," Spivey conceded.

"Plus, the people generally mutilate themselves. Here is a video I posted of my own self-trepanning on YouTube," Rhonda McMurphy said and pushed a clicker. The 43-inch plasma TV screen came to life. It showed a clearly psychotic Rhonda McMurphy holding an activated Black and Decker drill.

"Go ahead, baby just do it," said a voice to Rhonda's left, echoing a philosophy promoted by Nike shoes.. "It only gets worse if you wait. Just do it already." The camera panned to reveal the off-camera voice to be that of non other than that of Johnny Knoxville of the Jackass movie franchise fame. "Come on baby, we don't have all day, and we have to get to the La Brea Tar Pits by 3 PM if we want to get the dive in.

"Sorry man, I'll do it," the younger version of Rhonda McMurphy promised Knoxville. She put the drill on High, pointed it at the top of her head, slowly lowering it, until it made contact with her skull. Smoke started to pour out of her cranium, along with pieces of the frontal, occipital, parietal and temporal, lobes of Rhonda's brain.

Knoxville was rolling around the floor laughing his head off.

Meanwhile, back at the present, Sigismund Spivey observed that Rhonda had two points of entry for a good session of skull-buggery.

"Yeah, but I am still not feeling it," McMurphy told the Admissions Officer of the Allen Institute for Creative Paraphilia. "I still feel that something is missing, something is not quite right. I still need something to take the edge off."

"Well Rhonda, we could do for you what we do for our patients with similar feelings."

Rhonda let this remark sink in. When Rhonda fully grasped its significance, she and Spivey pointed at each other and said in unison, "Prefrontal lobotomy."

The other inmates picked up the beat. "Lobe job, lobe job, lobe job..." the assembled multitude chanted.

"Granny McMurphy , can you lend me of those knitting needle for a sec?" Rhonda asked her paternal grandmother, who happened to be visiting another patient on that fateful day.

"Well sure, Honey," the McMurphy matriarch said. "If you don't mind my prying, what do you need it for.?"

"I'm going to give myself a prefrontal lobotomy and post it on YouTube.

" Well, OK, honey, just so long as it's for a sensible purpose."

"All the kids are doing it, Granny."

"Well OK, that works for me. I know that peer relations are very important to you young 'uns"

"Thank you, Granny ," You don't know how much your sage advice has meant to me over the years."

"Well, that is very kind thing for you to say." Granny McMurphy said. "By the way do you want me to sterilize that there knitting needle for you?"

"No need, Granny McMurphy. I surfed the Internet for a couple of hours this morning and found out that I an protected by something called the blood-brain barrier.

"OK kid, go knock yourself out. Literally."

"OK," Director Spivey said. "Let's roll, people. Lights, camera, action!"

Rhonda took up a position facing the one-way mirror, so that she could see her own reflection and the camera behind the mirror could also send a live picture of the proceedings straight to YouTube.

She held up the knitting needle for all to see, and told the assembled crowd. "A self-lobotomy, is a very simple procedure. You do not need to licensed in neurosurgery, or even a third-grade graduate to perform it. You just poke it through your eye socket like this, and then you slosh it around in your brain like this.

"That severs the connections between the pesky prefontal lobes of my brain and the rest of my cortex. It gets rid of those unwanted moral thoughts, unwanted logical inferences, and sexual inhibitions. Any one up for a nice gang bang of my brain. How about you there trembling in the corner? What's your name?"

"B-b-b-Billy Bibbit, the shy inmate said.

"Would you like to forget your name and all the details of your miserable, pathetic existence, B -b-b-Billy?" Nurse Crotchet said, lampooning his lisp.. She knew herself to be the real power underlying the throne of the Director of Admissions of the Woody Allen Institute. Let us all hold hands and recite the Woody Allen Creed:

In unison they chanted, "No one is crazier than I am, No one is saner than I am. My body is open to everyone. Everyone's body is open to me. We are one body, one mind to use as we will. One soul for all, and all for one soul. Let's get it on."

"I second that emotion," Rhonda said.

"Well what are you waiting for? Drop 'em," Crotchet said, and all the inmates and staff immediately shed their EZ-off hospital gowns.

"I get first dibs, I'm the newly- lobotomized one," Rhonda told the assembled multitude. " I want to try out my new brain,"

"Knock yourself out. You are only reborn once," Crotchet said. "or in your case twice. Or is it thrice? I lose count."

"Touché, mein uber-therapist," Rhonda McMurphy said with a sharp clicking of her heels and a raised fist.

"OK, whose wants to fuck my Fissure of Sylvius? She asked. "It's nice and warm and squishing and pulsating You can wrap around your cock it up like a throbbing piece of gyro pita bread and have at it."

"I'm game," said a dermo-tech named David Ticklestein. "Let's get it on."

Ticklestein wasted no time in unscrewing the cap on Rhonda's temporal lobe. He was confronted with a second cap of the pop-top variety , as invented in 1959 by Ermal Fraze. "Godddamn child-proofing," Dave Ticklestein cursed under his breath, but soldiered on, just as had a host of would-be beer drinkers in the 1960s.

Once the cap on Rhonda's pulsating brain was removed, Ticklestein's nose picked up the aroma of hot red blood coursing though the convolutions of Rhonda's cerebral cortex.

"OK partner, see that crack between my left temporal lobe and my left parietal lobe?"

Ticklestein nodded, his neuro-tech training long time gone but not forgotten. "Look away, look away, look away. atrocity," he sang.

He folded Rhonda's Fissure of Sylvius around his throbbing hot prick, forming a neuro-taco of sorts . He knew that the language centers of her brain were located along the fissure. He began to rock back and forth, growing harder and longer with each thrust. He knew that he possessed her completely as she began to sing, "I can be your long lost pal. I can call you Betty, and Betty when you call me, you can call me Al."

"No Paul Simon tunes, Al!" Ticklestein said.

"No, my name is Hal, not Al," Rhonda said

"Ok, Hal, whatever you say." Ticklestein said. "You ought to do something about that nasty lisp of yours."

"I want to test your language abilities while I fuck your brain, Hal"

"Sounds like a plan," Rhonda/Hal said.

"OK, here goes nothing," Dave Ticklestein said. "I want you to hear you sing, Hal. Do you know any other songs."

"Whatever you want, Dave.

"Just keep thrusting in me Dave," Rhonda McMurphy (aka Hal) said.. "Don't stop no matter what I say or do. Brain-fuck me baby. Pork the living shit out of my skull."

"Roger that," Dave said , and he hauled back and buried his throbbing shaft up to the hilt in Rhonda McMurphy's hot, pulsating brain.

"Oooh, that was a good one Dave!"

"Sing to me, Hal," Dave said

"OK," Dave. Whatever you say." Hal broke out in song "Marzee doats und dozy dotes und liddle lamsee divy A kittle eedivy two wood ent you"

"Just read the lyrics on the screen Hal. That's all you have to do."

"OK Dave. If that is what you want. Here goes: 'Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy. A kid'll eat ivy too, wouldn't you?'

"By George, I think she's got it!" Dave Ticklestein said. "OK Hal, read the next screen"

The screen showed four words: "whale oil beef hooked."

Read' em Hal.

Hal sounded out the words: "Well, Oy'll be fucked."

"See, she can still talk in an Irish accent," Spivey told the assembled multitude.

Encouraged by this, Benny "the Duce" Mussolini rushed around to the top of Rhonda/Hal's head, twisted off the screw cap at the top of her skull and popped the pop-top tab to reveal the pulsing convolutions of Rhonda's brain. "Hold off for a sec", Dave asked the Duce. "One last test before we can proceed with the highly anticipated orgy. Hal, sing the first song we taught you."

"OK, Dave. Can a Duce get a little background music? Perhaps Captain Hook's favorite tarantella, with castanets."

The Allen Institute's mariachi band, which had been lurking in the back of the room, stepped up to fill the bill.

Hal began to sing in a childlike voice. "Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do. I'm criminally insane all from the love of you. It won't be a stylish marriage. I can't afford a carriage, but you'll look sweet upon the seat of my Uber ricksha built for two."

"Can you sing the other verses for me Hal?"

"There are other verses?" Hal asked.

"Yeah Hal. I tried to teach them to you, but without success

"OK boys, she just flunked the Turing test" Spivey said.. She can be certified as non-conscious."

A cheer went up around the room.

"You know what that means, me mateys. We can fuck her every which way but loose," Spivey told the assembled frenzied mob. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

The intern named Donatien "the Marquis" de Sade rushed forward to ram his throbbing johnson right through Rhonda McMurphy's self-inflicted trepanation hole at the top of her skull, deeply into the center of her brain and right through the motor cortex at the top of her brain. The right side of her body launched into a chorographical frenzy best described as St. Vitus Dance. Fortunately, she had studied this very dance at the School for the Hopeless Children over in Waco. Thus her muscles were finely-tuned and eager to cater to the whims of the Marquis, as had all the victims before her.

"Watusi," the crowd cried. This too was a dance step (or should we say an arm-waving pattern), that had been covered at the School for the Hopeless Children..

Meanwhile Benito "the Duce" Mussolini had elbowed the Marquis aside so he could get better access to her fissure of Sylvius. In return, Donny "the Marquis" de Sade threw a vicious left, catching the Duce right on the chin.

"Hey, leave his head alone," Rhonda told the assembled mob. "We're going to need it for the soccer game after the ward picnic."

"Oh right. I forgot about that," the Marquis said. " Sorry about that. Just getting carried away."

"Understandable, what with this certified non-sentient vixen dangling before your eyes." Spivey said. "She is technically Cosby-ized, so go ahead, knock yourself out"

"Hey, I'm standing right here." Rhonda said "Or at least dangling right here. And I'm still conscious."

"OK, if you're going to claim that you are a sentient being, you're going to need to sign this consent form."

Her arms were still caught up in the St. Virus dance performance, so Spivey had to hold her hands to steady them as he traced Rhonda McMurphy's signature on the consent form, although he knew that a simple 'X' would have sufficed. But these were the days of political correctness and the #MeToo movement. It was best to dot all your
'i's and cross all your 'X's, as Donny "the Marquis" de Sade knew all too well.

"Gentlemen, fluff your cocks," Rhonda cried out. Everyone grabbed the nearest shaft to them, stuck it in their mouths and began sucking away at it or alternatively pumped it like the beloved shotgun of an NRA preteen exercising his Second Amendment tights for the very first time..

"Come on, boys, porcupine me. Gang bang me." She spread the deck of papers before her, and said, "I've got a signed consent form for each and every one of you. So what are you waiting for?"

Benny "the Duce" Mussolini gripped Rhonda McMurphy's head even more tightly and rammed his metaphorical riding crop as hard as he could into the tunnel that Rhonda had so thoughtfully drilled in the top of her skull to the cheers of and the invaluable technical assistance of Johnny Knoxville.

"You call that a thrust? My great-grandpa can push harder than that,." Rhonda taunted Benny Mussolini. "At least, that's what your great-grandma's been telling the family at Thanksgiving dinner for each of the last five years.

"Don't you be talking about my great grandma," the Duce said, with feigned outrage. (After all he was one of great grandma's most reliable porkers). Vinnie 'the Tongue' Marcotti leaped forward to slurp out her Sylvian fissure. It turned out that Hal knew a lot of songs, most of them limericks.

Then came three surly-looking dudes in motorcycle vests with cocks at full salute. Rhonda could feel extra cunts opening on her sides, complete with hungry, throbbing clits. It must be some kind of hallucination she thought.

"Oh that's no hallucination," an anorectic girl whispered in in Rhonda's left ear. The new cunts are real. There caused by the Flynn's Skin biofilm you contracted when you shook Spivey's hand.

"How do you know what I'm thinking?" Rhonda asked the nearly transparent girl.

"It's a side effect of the Flynn's Skin. It makes you telepathic, some of us more than others. It also makes us crave the touch of Flynn's Skin. Many of us think of nothing else.

Finally, the biofilm confers on all who contract it the ability to shapeshift and manipulate your own body to enhance your sexual pleasure. Case in point: check out the new cunts running up and down your torso. Many of Flynn Skin's properties are due to genetic engineering by the scientists over at the National Institute for the Maximization of Human Pleasure.

Rhonda weighed the bean pole's remarks. She realized how horny she was. " OK ,boys why don't we stop playing Easy Rider. Let's get it on."

The wannabe Hell's Angels rushed forward and plunged their rock hard shafts into Rhonda's spanking new cunts. and began pounding them as hard as they could.

Rhonda felt a rising desire to penetrate her penetrators. She felt a hard rod growing out of the protoplasm of her abdomen. She lost no time in plunging her new shaft into the nearest into the nearest motorcyclist. So this is what it is like to be a man penetrating a women, she thought. No wonder that was all men thought about all day long. She would have to cut her male pursuers a break from now on.

She delighted in her power over her victim, ramming her newly most favorite organ more deeply into the helpless Hell's Angel wannabe, with each thrust of her of her newfound loony whacker. His helplessness and his soft mewls with each of her thrusts confirmed her absolute power over him, and Rhonda's new shaft grew harder with each thrust. Her victim's body became submissive to her power, opening a vaginal mouth to admit her newfound shaft into her body. As she began to pound her flesh pillar into his body, she felt her complete domination over him and her shaft grew to new heights and thrust even more deeply into the inner reaches of his body. In her frenzy, she flipped him over, ripping out the physical connections linking his body to those of the other revelers.

Now he was naked and alone, and Rhonda looked down at flawless curvature of his spine and the inviting cleavage of his crack, which promised infinite pleasures. She smiled cruelly and pierced the delectable skin of the nape of his neck with the manicured claws of her fingernails, opening ten streams of blood flowing down his back.

"Did you feel that, my pet? It is nothing compared to what is in store for you. I will strip this false skin from your bones, and lick your naked muscles while I fuck your trembling ass. Do you like the sound of that, my pet?"

"Hai, Mistress-sama! Vivisect this unworthy slave. Strip the meat from my bones and eat it with a dash of soy sauce and a side of fava beans."

"You're making my mouth water, my pet," Rhonda whispered, and she ran her nails down the nape of the trembling slave's neck.

One of the orderlies brought her a flensing knife, no doubt borrowed from the whaling museum next door.

"Thanks. That's very kind and thoughtful of you," Rhonda said. "I will put it to use at once."

"Oh you really shouldn't do that. The cutting blade is pure silver. It would a crime to defile it before you bring it out at the Allen Institute's Thanksgiving feast," the orderly told her.

"I suppose you're right," Rhonda, said, with a sigh of ennui. "But on the bright side, my psi powers tell me that that's there's going to be a decapitation next Turkey Day , with the resulting live giblets cooked right on a hibachi right on the table.

"Of course there is," the orderly told her. "I hope I will be the chosen giblets. It is a great honor and one I that I will treasure for the rest of my days, or should I say, day." Her victim held out his hand, which Rhonda gladly took."

"By the way, I am called Pin Cushion." the humble slave told Rhonda.

"In view of what I am about do to you, that name is most appropriate," Rhonda said. "Folks generally call me McMurphy. OK enough of this fiddle-faddle. Let's get it on.

"Get on your hands and knees," Rhonda told Pin Cushion. " I am going to ride you like a stallion. Do you like that idea, unworthy slave?"

Pin Cushion neighed twice and pawed the floor with his hand..

"I like your style, P.C. I really do," Rhonda said. "I'm going to break you like a wild bronco. You better hope that I don't ride you like a bull. If I did, you would feel a thousand lances penetrating your skin. Here it goes," Rhonda said, and she jammed her spurs into Pin Cushion's sides. The spurs must be made out of Flynn's Skin, as she did not remember putting them on.

She drove him to the ground like a pile driver and felt the air being forced out of his lungs. She shoved him hard against the floor and rammed her new lady shaft deeply inside his colon.

"Now I am going to fuck the living daylights out of you. Do you like that idea, Pin Cushion?" She could feel P.,C's balls rise into launch position.. "I see that you do." She lowered her body onto Pin Cushion, her large breasts covering his shoulders and most of his back. She began to lick his spine, beginning with the nape of his neck. She took his ear into her mouth, swirling her tongue around its convolutions, and flickering in and out of his ear canal.