Fawkward

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

― Charles Bukowski

Spinning on its axis at 50 times normal speed, the Earth hurtles through space 1,000 miles faster than it has in billions of years.

This alone should exterminate life on the planet, but it doesn't.

Abruptly, the tiny celestial globe stops moving, in an act so violent, nothing can survive it. Somehow, though, we all remain intact, and breathing.

In a matter of seconds, the third rock from the Sun becomes a white hot sphere.

Sexy graphics slide into frame, announcing something far more important than Spaceship Earth, out of control, and on the verge of destruction.

"Up next, the president delivers a State of the Union address concerning more meaningless shit designed to divert you from realizing you're a slave..." In voice-over, an interchangeable "journalist" serves up an interchangeable broadcast about nothing.

Transfixed by the Big Screen, a sweaty HVAC repairman pops his limp cock from some nanny's moist mouth. "That's right," the paramour proclaims. "This is that speech about the war on terror."

"You can't have a war on terror. [...]

What does war create?

Terror!"

― Steve Hughes

"We'll be back with that live feed from Washington, right after these messages from people who hate you, and want your money," the corporate clown on TV asserts.

"Jesus, he's doin' this one live!" squeals the air conditioner mechanic, hopping off the bed.

Except for the fuck junky, and the female caregiver he's servicing, everyone at the gangbang turns toward the television.

Amid the ramshackle room at Texas Station, tfj watches the other males lose interest in the bare beauty atop the mattress. Hypnotized, all three stand, shuffling toward the brainwashing box.

Stifling spew, our hero trips, stepping in gum the size of a Chihuahua testicle. "What the fuck―?!" Backpedaling, his stiffened staff releases from the Midwest maiden.

In response, the woman splatters squirt over the mismatched carpet. "Is that coming outta me?!?" the au pair yips.

On TV, a fake waiter, in a fake restaurant, fantasizes about asking fake customers if he can dredge his dirty-ass balls through their soup. Instead, he sells his soul, merely uttering: "May I get you folks some more thirst-quenching Pepsi?"

Desperate thespians ― playing ignorant diners ― joyously respond with puke-rendering bile, which causes those engaged in the illusion to fake uncontrollable laughter.

"[I]f you live in a world full of politicians and advertising, there's obviously a lot of deception."

― Kenneth Koch

" 'A lot'?!?" tfj ruminates, the quote scrolling across the news ticker in his mind. "That's all there fuckin' is!"

Captivated by the flat screen, the AC technician and his cohorts amble toward the monitor, soft cocks beginning to twitch with life for the first time this evening.

Returning to the scene of the crime, the fuck junky reenters the Orgasm Octagon. Gripping the gal's gams at the edge of a now-sodden mattress, he thrusts repeatedly, using the upward curve of a bent beef baton to his advantage.

In moments, the RN finds herself again at the precipice, teetering over the cliff.

Working a lubed thumb ― calloused from this very action ― the fuck junky simultaneously massages a clit prepared to produce.

On screen, one commercial replaces another, as a human prune rolls up $500 shirt sleeves, French kisses babies, and pretends to toil on a farm with more actors playing proles.

By this time, the three other males in attendance stand mesmerized in front of the menticide monitor, blissfully bathed in bullshit.

"Fuck the president!" the hapless puppet on the tube vomits forth "authority"-sanctioned drivel, credulously regurgitating the remains of his shit-soaked soul.

Riveted, the triumvirate have all but forgotten there's a woman preparing to jettisoning another payload behind them.

"I'll suck my own worthless cock here and now," the decoy on TV chokes out the rote necessary to collect his paycheck, "proving I've got what it takes to swallow not only my seed, but the rancid baby batter Washington pumps from its sickened sack."

Timing his exit with precision, tfj extracts his erection.

The nude nurse shoots more silent streams. "Fuck! Am I squirting?!?"

Splashed with labia liquid, our protagonist drops to his knees, drinking directly from the tap.

"So, remember to vote for me ― just another wasted life, looking to confuse you, in my attempts to steal your innate autonomy." The political pitchman, on the calumny conduit, loves the sound of his own voice.

Entranced, the other three suitors sway in unison before the flickering screen, gripped by the absolute nothing it transmits.

"Help me accomplish not a goddamned thing, fucking not only you over in the process, but also myself, my kids, their kids, and the rest of humanity," the nameless nobody smiles.

A nanosecond later, some interchangeable president stands behind a lectern, impaling himself on corporate cock before 330,000,000 people.

At that, the AC mechanic's dick rises to new heights, as do his compatriots'.

Having drained the pussy before him, our hero struggles to remove the gum from his bootheel.

Cradling her cranium, the nude woman sits up. "I've— I've never squirted before," she croaks.

Wiping cunt cream from his chin, the fuck junky yanks his pants on backwards.

Gazing up, the chick smiles. "Thank you," she breathes. "Thank you so much!"

Snatching his shirt from a pile of clothes, tfj kisses the nanny on the forehead. "Glad I could help, hon."

Around the TV, the ghastly scene has become Aum Shinrikyo in the '80s, or Chuck Manson a couple years after the Summer of Love. "Even with 330,000,000 members, a cult is still a cult," the fuck junky ponders, prior departing.

The three men don't even hear him leave, as they begin to stroke themselves before the HDTV.

Dashing across a Sun-bleached parking lot, our protagonist makes for the "safety" of his car. Once inside, he catches his breath.

All about him, cult members — clueless they're such — pilot SUVs, and walk their dogs. These initiates hate, and kill, people on the other side of the planet — people they've never even met — simply because congressmen, kings, and presidents tell them to.

The entire senseless scenario causes tfj to ponder:

"Does the president hitchhike?"

Seems a strange question, but in Jack Kerouac's On the Road, Sal Paradise had to, in order to see the "United States."

"Shit! The president doesn't even drive, does he?!" our hero cogitates. "For all we know, he may not even be able to operate anything but a fuckin' golf cart!"

Honestly, when was the last time you took free Lyft rides everywhere ― chauffeured around, without having to pay for 'em?

Pondering this ultimate con artist ― who's duped the masses, like 40-some mountebanks before him ― the fuck junky silently muses, "Do you think the president ever has to shop for groceries?"

It's something most will never consider. A person may spend 90 years on this planet, and visit grocery stores thousands of times. In that duration, it's highly plausible they'll never once contemplate what they're doing isn't something the president does...ever!

Grocery shop?! The president?!? That charlatan will never wait in line for anything! The POTUS can't be caught thumbin' Soap Opera Digest, while some cashier blows loads on a vibrating egg beneath her slave slacks, as she tallies WIC payments.

And how 'bout that cookin'? Bitch has his meals prepared for him.

Whaddya' think rent is like at the White House? And the mortgage on a mansion of that magnitude?

What?! The King o' Korruption pays neither rent, nor a mortgage?! For that castle-and-a-half?! Fucker exists rent-free?!?

When was the last time you could simply forego payin' your lease?

Health insurance for someone in his line of whatever-the-fuck-the-president-does must be astronomical!

What's that you say? El presidente doesn't have to shell out a dime for what is, by far, the best medical coverage on this planet?!

Next you're gonna proclaim the president doesn't pay a heating bill, for trash collection, HOA fees, etc.

And what about travel? Dude's all over the globe...on your dime, even though you haven't gone anywhere but the welfare office, in years.

"All these burdens the president doesn't have jammed up his asshole are nightmares we're forced to deal with on a regular basis," tfj correctly concludes.

Piercing the ignition with a greasy key, he fires up his one cylinder riding lawnmower, in preparation for the trek home.

"Even though we're mired in this shit ― from which the president is exempt ― in some deranged way, folks feel they, and this fuck stain in the White House, understand each other." It's insanity.

How can the president comprehend the regular anguish you incur, if he doesn't have to deal with it? And if it's physically impossible for him to fathom your strife, what the fuck is he doing making decisions "on your behalf?!"

It was that inner dialogue the fuck junky had with himself, while coasting to the cardboard box he called his apartment.

Lying in bed that evening, watching a pair of roaches make love, tfj checked his bank account on a phone that was slashing its wrists. Sixty-seven cents...overdrawn. Rent was due...five days ago.

Brown liquid dripped from a ceiling sporting more cracks than a crowded nude beach.

Worrying himself to sleep, our hero suffered through a nightmare about being evicted.

The felon in the White House wasn't doing the same.

— authored by Hugh Mungus; a.k.a. the fuck junky