The Korn King

"People are strange: They are constantly angered by trivial things, but on a major matter like totally wasting their lives, they hardly seem to notice."

― Charles Bukowski

Carving blistered backroads ― the way a chef cleaves holiday ham ― the Korn King programmed his GPS for John Glenn's most imminent gangbang. Yes, that John Glenn ― dead astronaut.

Somehow, some way, the defunct spacefarer found a calling coordinating cumfests in bug-billowing motel rooms across omitted interstate. He'd traded in his pressurized flight suit for a six-pack of Jimmy Hats, bologna-flavored lube, and lifetime subscriptions to Internet swing sites.

Tufts of baby hair ― displaced sand ― coiled behind K-Squared's Dodge Dingus; his obsessed mind disgorging overloads of amateur porn. Pushing DEFCON 1, visions of the cream-colored concubine awaiting him ― and six other suitors ― at a condemned motor court, skewed his vision. He could barely see through a windshield splashed in bug protein, and road grease.

A steady cascade of perspiration slathered his bumpy brow, nearly obliterating the steamy twist of road before him. Ribbons of highway stretched into the distance.

Dropping the vehicle into fifth gear, KK squeezed the rubber bulb attached to the penis pump. His engorged cock became a prize-winning squash, inside the device, as he winced in a combination of pain and pleasure.

"Buy me a dildo!" Luciana demanded.

"What?!" Paco gazed up from between the handsome maiden's industrial-strength thighs, girl jizz ― direct from the tap ― dripping off his scraggly Van Dyke.

"You heard me. I want a dildo."

Hot, sliced jalapeños wafted from somewhere within Nina Casita ― the tiny apartment complex where the buxom, brown woman resided.

Paco glanced about. Crouched like a Chihuahua on the floor, he couldn't see the digital clock ― thrice refried beans packed into its every crevice ― which read 3:37 AM. The stout man knew it was late. He'd smoked four menthols outside, prior to entering the diminutive flat, and had checked his face-cracked cell then. At that point, it had been 1:18.

"Now?" DeLeon queried.

"Of course now!" the undulating mamasita snapped.

"But it's the middle of the night―"

"I don't care what time it is. I want a dildo. Something fancy; something thick and hard, that will really fill me up, and get me off―"

"Are you saying―?!" the taco cook's eyes widened, as he stood.

"Of course not. You know you're a mule, but what about those times when you're away at work? You can't be between my legs every minute of the day, can you?"

Amidst the darkness, bullet holes of moonlight punctured the black, illuminating the man's boner, that resembled a well-built lingua burrito.

"If you buy me a dildo, I'll let you fuck my seester―"

"Sixty fuckin' dollars?!" DeLeon mentally shrieked, as he perused the plastic penis section at his local, desert porn emporium. "I'm gonna have to pay in installments."

He fingered a slick cellophane package, it's contents no more than half a pound of hardened, molded rubber.

"Eighty dollars?!? I need to take out a loan."

His wallet felt lighter than a neo-Nazi's skin tone, browsing the exorbitantly expensive collection. Nine inches; eleven inches; fourteen fuckin' inches! Maybe if he purchased half a dildo, he could get 50 percent off. What the fuck did he know? Did they charge by the inch?

Overhead fluorescent lamps illuminated the filth factory, as Paco stepped to the counter, approaching a clerk whose mug looked like a Jerry Cheevers face mask.

"Is this the cheapest dildo in the store?" the chef ― who perpetually stank of cilantro ― uttered, holding up something resembling a gelatin capsule in shape and size.

Preparing to peel a banana, only the cashier's right eye moved, as he gazed at the item in Paco's hand. The clerk shook his head.

"Well, what is then?" DeLeon queried.

The gaunt man held up the yellow, phallic fruit in his palm.

Paco stared, nonplussed. And then, a row of lights caught his eye in the window behind the porn clerk's head. Reeking of chopped vegetables, sweat, and something high on the Scoville scale, DeLeon peered around the register attendant, where the glow of an Albertson's sign illuminated the night.

The stitched-up rag doll of a shop steward leaned back into Paco's frame of reference, smiling, exposing a mouth with fewer teeth than a stripped zipper.

SMASH CUT TO:

INTERIOR. ALBERTSON'S PRODUCE SECTION:

Carrots; cucumbers; corn cobs―

Corn cobs!

That was it. Fuckin' corn cobs!

With bloodshot eyes, the short order cook focused on a price. Fifty-seven cents per cob!

Salivating, cunt cream caked across his chin, his cranium was filled with visions of Ximena ― Luciana's sister ― naked, and spread eagle.

"Sixty bucks for a fake cock?!" pondered Paco. "What's the fuckin' point?" For $60, he could buy 120 corn cobs; over 100 feet of rigid, perpetually-petrified penis. What's more, after slappin' a rubber on one of these bastards, and fuckin' Luciana with it, he could shuck the corn, and ground out some delicious tortillas!

Although the idea seemed brilliant to DeLeon, his girlfriend would become his ex, as a result, and he would never see the inner workings of Ximena's hole. Such stated, the legend of the Korn King was born that fateful evening. As a result, thousands of women across the darkened desert would be satisfied by this simple man's ingenuity, and an ever-present item of common produce.

Corn sales wouldn't exactly soar. After all, he was one hombre workin' at a taco stand in the boiling barrens. How many ears of maize could he possibly purchase?

That said, his exploits would become the substance of lascivious lore.

Now, as he raced toward yet another one of John Glenn's dissolute desert digressions, he quietly considered the old man, and his past, as well.

The year had been 1962. John Glenn was poised to orbit the Earth a fourth time. Instead, he opted to crash-land in the desert, and organize a gangbang. It's who he was. It was the life's blood that ran through his veins; his sole passion.

The astronaut gig was copious corporate cock for the masses to gag on, while those with the money machine wreaked their ruse on us. Of this, he was aware. That said, he remained silent, spending sleepless nights attempting to convince himself he was still a good person ― so he'd go to "the happy place" when he "died."

It was uncut excrement. He wasn't part of a special breed; a handful of spacefarers on this planet. Every person on Earth had been made an astronaut, simply by taking tactile form. After all, the third rock from the Sun is in space, and we're all aboard it. That makes each of us empyrean explorers, or astronauts, even though most won't ever consider such.

Glenn knew it was all a pyramid scheme to control us, and that's why he coordinated fuckfests in the sand. It offered him escape, if only for a few, brief moments.

In actuality, the ancient archive organizing this evening's erotic event ― save for being of the same species ― had nothing to do with John Glenn. He simply looked like him.

To the Korn King ― once Paco, now a sexual superhero, known throughout the desolation ― this was apparent. Still, he'd noted the striking resemblance between John Glenn, and the strange, little man who'd been altruistically regulating ribald raunch rodeos.

As KK careened over the isolation, he chuckled to himself for being so clever.

Amidst the solitude, he gripped the bulb of the penis pump once more, slightly increasing the pressure...and then his cock exploded.

— authored by Hugh Mungus