Deus Sex Magnumcock Pt. 03

The story so far:

Jim, ugly creep who is constantly rejected by women, is on holiday and gets facelift by strange doctor. Wakes up to find in addition to new face, every woman wants to fuck him. Instead of using power to fuck lots of women, he gets into long-term relationship with hotel receptionist resembling Cameron Diaz (or potentially Gwyneth Paltrow), but who, after quitting drugs, gets like really, really fat. Oh, yeah, and in the middle of all this is a sentient transparent wall that keeps changing the size of Jim's dick, and which has powers that only seem to work ironically. The wall, not the dick. At the end of Part 2, the wall had agreed to make Michelle thin again.

"Jesus," said the wall, "is there really gonna be a Part 3 to this shit?"

Yes, my child.

"Oh, shit. Jesus, is that you?"

No, of course, not, dummy. That would be stupid.

"As opposed to the previous two chapters?"

It's all going to make sense soon. Honest.

"Oh, all right then. I guess I'll keep going with this."

#

"Zap," the wall said.

A flash of bright light filled the room, and suddenly the plot became coherent again, and it was indeed the doctor who had given Jim both his new face and big dick, a dick which was only changing sizes because he was getting, like, erect or flaccid or whatever, and it wasn't really magic at all. Jim hadn't really impregnated Michelle's mother, and Michelle's parents had not gotten separated because of some alleged DNA test that she, Michelle's mother, refused to take. The stuff about Jim's job and his affairs all really happened though.

"What the fuck, man?" Jim cried aloud.

"What's the problem?" Wall said.

"You just retconned everything. And Michelle's still a fat whale."

"Yeah. Ironic, huh?"

"How is it ironic?" Jim crossed his arms.

"Well, you weren't expecting it, were you?"

"No, I guess not. But if none of it ever happened, how come I remember it all?"

"Oh. Well, I guess that's pretty ironic too, when you think about it."

"What are you two babbling about?" Michelle said, stuffing her face with a tray of cooked French fries.

"Nothing, honeybunny. Say, where did you get those fries? I never put them on to cook."

"Fries," Michelle said, stuffing more into her mouth.

Jim looked back at the wall accusatively. "You didn't make her a retard, did you?"

"No..." Wall said. "I think she's just preoccupied."

"Michelle, what's two plus two?" Jim said.

"Fries. Ketchup."

Jim looked back on the wall in horror. "She is retarded!"

"What can I say," Wall said. "Junk food'll rot your brain."

Jim sighed deeply. "So much for making the plot coherent."

"What?" Wall said. "It's coherent. Look, you have a fat, retarded wife, and—"

"Stop, stop, stop!!"

"All right, fine. Let me see if I can change it back. Zap."

A flash of blue light consuming the room, French fries turning into mushrooms in bloom, boom, it's Joe Rogan, Jamie can you pull up your pants? My name's Jim, not Jamie, and why does my wife look like Joe Rogan? Well you see, began the wall, everyone likes Joe Rogan and hardly anyone liked Michelle, how could I tell? The previous two parts aren't even out yet. No sweat. This is pure statistics—people want hot chicks and big dicks, but not together, unless its one going into the other. Oh brother, stop complaining and let it go, Michelle is gone and here is Joe:

—That is fascinating. I wonder if chimps smoke weed in the wild?

—Well, uh, that's an interesting question. (The guest is Jordan B. Peterson)

Joe waits patiently for an answer.

—Ok, so, if we're going to talk about chimps, we must also talk about...bananas. And...you see...bananas aren't weeds, they have a lot of bloody utility for chimps. We can't expect...chimps...to smoke bananas now, can we?

Joe's eyes grow wider and a chimpish grin stretches across his face.

—And now the banana, you look at a banana, Joe, and uh...you see a symbol there. A phallic symbol, if you will. Now the phallus, Joe, the phallus is a representation of man, isn't it? The prototypical representation of man is of course the father, and well that is, when you take a systematic, conceptualized look at the whole bloody thing, is the root of the patriarchal structure you see in society today.

Joe's eyes bloodshot from staring (and from taking a hit of his joint).

—So yah, Joe, so what you have to puzzle out is not whether the chimps smoke weed, but whether the chimps recognize the idea of father qua father-figure, in the proto-society going on uh in say the rainforest, where you're bound to find a lot of bloody bananas.

Beads of marijuana sweat trickling down Joe's shiny head.

—But Joe, uh, with regards to the latter question, I don't think I could answer that competently without at least several months of intense thought. It's a tough one to consider.

—You can say that again (looking over at Jamie with a grin). So, uh, you want to take a hit, Jordan?

—No, no, I better not. Weed is uh, weed is an instantiation of a plant, and plants...

—But plants are good for you, right?

—Well, some are; that is true.

—What about weed? Is that good for you?

—Well...

—Because that's the question on everyone's mind, right?

—Yes, and uh that's certainly a valid question. But, man, without unpacking the whole dominance hierarchy of flora and fauna in the habitat of cannabis plants, I don't think I could answer that competently.

—So you don't want to take a toke?

—Oh, what the hell. Give it here.

AHEUgh HUugh hugh

—Ahahaha, Jordan brother, you're a lightweight.

"Please turn Joe Rogan back into my fiancée," Jim (aka Jamie) pleaded.

"Zap."

"Fries," Michelle said.

"Fuck."

The phone rang. It was the guy from Motel 6 again.

"Hardwood, your credit card bounced."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the payment didn't go through. For the mattress you ruined."

"Oh, that. Do you just pop into existence any time I say the word 'fuck?'"

"Well, that uh depends on how you define 'existence,' and how you define 'fuck.'"

"Jordan? Is that you?"

"Ya, it is, and man, you bloody well better pay for that mattress or you're going to feel the instantiation of my foot unpacked up your ass, bucko."

"Fuck off." Jim slammed the phone down. He wasn't in the mood for this malarkey, not when his wife had been reduced to a Walmart shopper.

"So, there's a way to fix this," Wall said. "But you're not gonna like it."

"Ohhh no. Not another rando. Forget it. No way, no how. There's not a chance in hell I'm going through that again."

"Ranch dip," said Michelle.

"Where are my car keys?"

#

Jim drove down Sunset Blvd again, eyes darting around the sidewalks for new prey.

"Oh, wait, stop the car. I figured it out," said Wall.

Jim screeched the tires to a halt and almost got hit by an open-top truck with five Mexicans in the back.

"What? What? Figured what out?"

"This thing with the ratings system."

"Oh, boy. Not this again. Why do you even care about ratings? Art is purely subjective. And in any case, you write trash on purpose."

"Just listen. It's not a score out of twenty, it's a score out of five."

"You don't say."

"But twenty, was, in other words, as I so deduced today when the score had risen to 2/21..."

"The number of times people voted on it."

"...Yes, actually. How did you know?"

"I mean, you'd have to be a frozen-fry-eating retard not to figure that out."

"Ahem, yes, well, let's just move on, shall we?"

"Maybe next time you'll get 3/5."

"Thanks Jim, you didn't have to say that."

(Jim was just tired of being a dick and decided to be nice to Wall for once...after all, retcons aside, he had helped him in many ways these past weeks. And he wouldn't have gotten to slay all that mad poontang without him, let's be fair.)

"So, Wall, I was thinking."

"Mhmm?"

"What happens when the story ends?"

"..."

"Like, after the pages run out. What then? With no one left to 'read' us, as you might say."

"Yes..."

"Do we stop existing?"

"No, we just stop going forward."

"What do you mean?"

"Meaning we relive the past two chapters over and over again as many times as they are read."

"And how many times will that be?"

Well, let's try to unpack that. First we have to understand the dominance hierarchy of Literotica, and how the uh ratings system establishes a halo effect which influences how the reader deals with long, drawn out passages of exposition, like the one at the beginning of this bloody chapter.

"...Jordan? Is that you?"

You're focusing on the wrong thing, bucko. Here you are focusing on me when you should be bloody looking at the road.

"What the? Oh FUCK"

Jim's tires roared a shrill, piercing shriek as Jim's box-of-shit swerved around another Mexican truck and turned sideways, now heading down the road horizontally with the grace of a constipated crab. "Fuck, Wall, do something!"

First we'll have to puzzle out what something means in this context, Joe.

"Oh, fuck off, Jordan Peterson!"

"Now take a look at this bloody driver, I'm sure he's pretty low on the dominance hierarchy of good driving!"

Jim struggled to steer the car back into the lane as a sea of cars swerved around him, beeping and cursing their way out of danger. "Shit, where the fuck is Wall and why is a podcast guest talking at me??"

"Watch out there bucko—that truck-qua-mexican-transport is coming straight for us."

"Oh fuuuuuuuckkkkk!!"

#

Michelle woke up in a pile of empty oreo boxes with a tremendous cowlick reminiscent of Jim's last lay (or if you want to go further back, Jim himself in the opening scene of Part 1).

"Jesus, I feel like shit."

I'm sorry to hear that, my child.

"Oh my Goodness, is that you, Lord?"

At the risk of repeating a joke, no, for that would just be silly.

"Then who are you?"

I'm glad you finally asked. I am Doctor Mischevison.

"Who?"

Well, uh, you may know me by another name: Dr. Jordan B. Peterson.

"Oh, no way! I loved that episode of Joe Rogan you were on."

Yes, I get that a lot. I'm not sure why people don't watch my other bloody lectures. Or clean their room.

"Maybe we should first unpack what it means to clean a room?"

Don't get cute with me, Michelle, or I'll give you a third chin.

"Wow, what an asshole."

In any case, as I was saying: I am Deus—i.e. the entity-qua-god in control of the series of zany events currently affecting yours and Jim's lives.

"So can you make me thin again?"

"Not so fast, Michelle. First we need to puzzle out why Wall's powers only work through irony, and uh without first giving you an etymological rundown on how the concept of irony developed from Greek tragedy onwards, I'm not sure I could give you a competent—"

"Oh SHUT THE FUCK UP! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!"

Gasp. Why that's bloody rude of you, isn't it? I am a god, you know.

"No you're not, you're a dickhead! A stupid dickhead!"

Fine. Then I guess you'll just bloody have to stay fat then, won't you, bucko?

"Oh my God I'm sorry. Please...don't go!"

All right, I'll stay.

"Oh, thank you! Please..."

Just kidding. Snap.

#

Jim.

Hey, Jim.

"Huh?"

Wake up, you big wet noodle.

Jim woke up on the airbag with a dry mouth and a pain in his head that ringed like the Liberty Bell and stung like an ice skate blade. He also had a fever like John Travolta and a toothache like a crack whore.

Jim was holding up traffic.

Hey, Jim, you're holding up traffic bucko.

"Just five more minutes, Dr. Peterson."

#

Michelle, I'm back.

"Huh?"

Michelle was busy shoveling her face with Snickers ice cream. It's a good invention really, she mused, since it's like eating a snickers bar and ice cream at the same time but you don't have to unwrap the bar separately. Michelle was also simultaneously eating a separate Snickers bar.

"What are you doing back here, Jordan?"

Well uh, I wanted to unpack why you're such a fat cow.

"I'm pretty sure you did that to me, you bastard."

No, no. That's not bloody true.

"Fine. Whatever. I've stopped caring."

You say that like it's a new thing.

"Mock me however much you like, I don't care I don't care I don't care!!"

Jordan (that is, uh, me) looked hurt. All his friends were gone—there was Jim, who was in a car crash, Wall, who was presumably also in same but whose whereabouts were unknown, and Michelle, who was eating her way, three Mars bars at a time, towards a coronary infarction or diabetic coma, whichever came first. My money was on the coma.

"I still don't care."

Well the plot died and so might your husband, so uh all that's left is fat jokes, I'm afraid.

"SOMETHING HAPPENED TO JIM?"

Yeah, car crash. Did I forget to mention that part?

"Oh, my Goodness! Is he okay?"

How should I know? I'm here bloody talking to your fat ass.

"Go check on him!"

Jordan sighed. Fine.

#

Hey, Jim. How are you doing?

"Dizzy."

Oh, perhaps you have a concussion.

"No, its these fast cuts between scenes. It's really disorienting."

(Jim winks at Wall)

"Huh? What's going on?" said Wall.

You were in a car crash.

"Who are you?"

I'm Dr. Jordan B. Peterson. You may know of me...

"Oh, right. The guy who unpacks shit. You were on Joe Rogan once, right?"

Jordan sighed.

"You know," Wall said, "Jim didn't get to fuck anyone yet in this chapter, and now he's going to be out of commission due to this car crash. What are we going to do?"

Sounds of cars honking violently.

Well uh, I suppose I could try and uh exploit my position on the dominance hierarchy to fucko a bloody bucko.

"Just get us out of here, ya big dummy," Wall said. "We're contributing to L.A. traffic congestion."

Snap.

#

Back at Jim & Michelle's, Michelle was stuffing her face with Twinkies.

Real original, bucko. What's next, pizza?

"Actually, we already did that two chapters ago," Wall said embarrassedly.

Jordan sighed.

I leave you in control for a couple of days and already everything has turned to cliché shit.

"Oh, trust me," said Jim, now lying down on the couch, "nothing about the last two chapters was cliché. Or maybe it all was. But it sure as shit didn't make any frickin sense."

"Jim!" Michelle said. "Are you all right?"

"Not really."

Michelle tried to get up several times from the plush chair she had set up next to the fridge but ultimately failed.

"It's okay, honeyhambiscuit, just relax. I'll be fine in a few..."

Jim passed out.

"Oh, Goodness! We have to get him to a hospital!"

"In that traffic?" Wall said.

"Dr. Peterson! Please, do something!"

But if I take him to a hospital, then when am I going to bloody fuck a bucko? We haven't had a sex scene yet.

"You can fuck me! Whatever! Just save him!"

Uh, no thanks. I don't think I could competently unpack your thighs to get my bloody dick in your vagina.

"Fuck you!"

The phone rang.

"Don't answer it!" Wall said. "It's just some asshole."

Michelle grabbed the receiver with her porkish hand. "Yelloo?"

"Hi, is this Jim Hardwood's residence?"

"Yeees."

"Hi. Listen, this is the front desk over at Motel 6..."

"He rings every time someone says 'fuck', is the deal." Wall said to Jordan.

Why ever should he do that?

"I dunno man. My powers do weird shit sometimes."

Tell me about it. This whole story's in bloody tatters!

"Can we just wrap this up already? Either fuck a broad or save Jim's life."

Michelle put the phone down. "Just some loon talking about getting xenomorph blood on his mattress."

All right, I've decided, buckos. I'm going to save Jim's life.

"Thank Goodness!"

"Thank Christ."

Thank bloody hell for that. Snap.

And so Jim was uh saved, and I changed careers from lecturing to going on podcasts, since that was all anyone bloody watched anyway. Thankfully, it still let me unpack quandaries about the dominance hierarchy with a certain degree of competency. Michelle, meanwhile, stayed a fat bloody bitch but Jim loved her anyway, as he had developed a fat fetish after the head injury. Finally, Wall quit his job as my ontological assistant and went on holiday...

And well, he was on holiday, so why not fuck some idiot bitch? He thought to himself, a conceited smile spreading across his crocodile jaw. The palms floated above him, wind rustling through flat leather leaves and casting sharp shadows across the poolside floor. His name was Wall. Hers Riley. And she was lying there, barely clothed really, a skinny bikini that barely covered up what it needed to. The game was afoot, a step-by-step approach to this tanned beaut; he wanted to kneel straight down and sniff her—no, no, no, hold on. Don't be an Eager McBeaver, Stever (His name was actually Wall, not Steve, or Jim, or even Bucko, which why did his boss always call him that?).

"Uh hello dear, you have a nice—"

"Fuck off."

RINGGGGG

Wall picked up the phone.

"This is your guy from Motel 6. Listen—"

"No, YOU listen, asshole! Fuck you, fuck your fucking mattress, and fuck your stupid fucking motel, too! There. There's your fuckin sex scene, bucko!"

"But that wasn't a—"

Wall hung up.

The End