Thompson's Tale of Towering Technicolor Terror and Tits!!!!!

    Share
    avatar
    Toothpick

    Male Number of posts : 273
    Experience :
    2 / 502 / 50


    Ultimate End character
    Class: Gladiator
    Life:
    166/166  (166/166)
    Weave:
    18/18  (18/18)

    Thompson's Tale of Towering Technicolor Terror and Tits!!!!!

    Post by Toothpick on Wed Jan 28, 2009 12:14 am

    “Turdburglars!” screamed Hunter S.Thompson, brandishing his mop of power at the effete swarm of queers that simpered his way. “I shall molest thy faces with the hate of eight Rush Limbaughs watching Will and Crace while attending a basket-weaving class.”

    And he did smite upon the lipstick-smeared face of the bum-punching lead faggot, the Alpha-Dickgobbling nutsucker el Presidente, and the brilliant red of AIDS infected blood sprayed in glorious profusion, turning the curtains a pleasant puce color, far removed from their typical unpleasant shade of eggshell white. The gays appreciated this change, and made up a college course to take advantage of the revolutionary knowledge “Wham, Blam, Thank you, Sam: How one fag’s fatal mop- smack became a whole country’s curtain fashion crack!”

    Thompson scurried out of assharm’s way, taking the stairs eleventy at a time, pausing onlt to mind the crosswalk guards, who were especially grumpy due to the outsourcing of American jobs to gnomes. The short, cheerful ex-lawn ornaments were glared at hatefully by the disenfranchised workers, who mumbled black threats of retribution against them whilst scrounging the papers for some shitty service job, noting the fragility of the gnome’s eclectically pointed ceramic heads and the strength sleeping in their arms from decades of furtive child-wanking in the dark, musty bushes that always lurk near school crossing zones.

    Thompson locked his door behind him, and turned to confront a nine-foot man in a three-piece suit-chestra, consisting of bassoon pants, a clarinet penis-holder longer than the Nile, and armpit covering trumpets, their pointed, protruding bells exploding with the kinks of rampant pubic hair.
    Realizing this was only his reflection, he paused to dye his pubes alternating magenta and Salvadorian, and exited through the window like a ham tossed by an angry black woman at her gluttonous husband after too-oft repeated entreaties for some sort of edible substance.

    Thompson squeezed through the air like a writhing squid, emitting faint yelps as he came into contact with various suspended objects, from well-hung puppies to ten-footed shelf-people, each one a living repository of useless Americana and old Reader’s Digests, uttering lame platitudes at a rate that put The Dalai Lama to shame.
    A light up ahead attracted him, mothlike, and he swam through space and time to it. It was a portal to his childhood!

    He trundled, frightfully, up the cobblestones to the waiting halls of learning, the scent of ammonia and chalk heavey in the air. Past sallow eyed janitors slow-dancing with lipid mops and sterile rows of dull grey lockers, he came to Mrs. Shelby’s classroom. Through the wire crossthatch of safety glass he saw himself, all cute and young and chipmunky, eyes fixed firmly on Mrs. Shelby’s massive rack.

    With a fell stroke of his inkstained hands, Thompson shattered the door like a bulldozer on a nest of Jews. His younger self, along with the rest of the class screamed as he tackled Mrs. Shelby, pawing at her heaving tatas through her floral floor length dress. She filled the air with high, plaintive moans as he rammed his cock past her lacy underwear into her twitching slit. He swept her off the desk, sending pencils and a dusty apple to the ground as he fucked her in midair, a twisting, sensuous light exploding from the point of their joining. He liftd his younger self into the air, sheiking. “Shut up, me, and try filling up the sweet ass with your lil’ periwinkle!” he said, tearing his least favorite pants off his pubescent self to reveal a twitching young boy-twig, end already slick with dickjuice. He squeezed his young self’s cock, remembering those sticky summer nights filling Kleenex with runny spooge, furtively sneaking into the bathroom and burying them at the bottom, under the snot rags and lipstick smeared napkins. He guided the eager young member to her pink, contorted butthole, pausing to smear it in saliva, and with a slap to his firm young butt sent it quivering into the depths of her rectum. Her cries shook the angels from their slumbers, and they formed a tenebrous ring around the threesome, softly humming the song of lust.

    They screwed a grand duet now, each thrusting in turn into her body, pausing to squuze her tumescent nipples and stroke her silken, dirty blode hair. It was an exquisite fucksecution. The light beams increased in intensity as they neared orgasm, and the nearby, huddling children combusted in the heat of their joining, melting into confused globs of protoplasm on the tile floor. At the moment of orgasm, it was as though millions of tons of TNT went off in the tip of his pulsing staff of light. The very universe around Thompson disintegrated, reality exploding out from in in ropes of semen, and he fell into darkness, into peace.


    Thompson awoke to a seedy hotel room covered in vomit and piss, his typewriter buried in the ceiling, with the sofa shoved up against the wall with a hole bored in the middle. The coffee table was dusky white with cocaine, and wads of used blotter acid littered the floor like discarded condoms in a Bangkok sexhole. On closer inspection, he noted a familiar looking white goop leaking from it…
    “Oscar!” he shouted, staggering to his feet. “What day is it Where the fuck are we?” The effort of walking and talking sent kaleidoscopic waves across the substance of everything, and he clutched the wall, which promptly fused with his skin and giggled. “I’m over here.” Sang a faint voice to his left.
    “You fat spic bastard, just what kind of LSD was that? It’s fantastic, but I would have appreciated a warning…” He trailed off as the TV shot fractalcats out the window. A blue, Mandlebrotesque one skipped over to fim and peered into his eyes with twisting infinities of riotous blue and orange, miowing not with sound, but with an off, pulsing sensation that made his eyes water and tasted like mint julips.
    A thin, dreamy voice floated out from behind the upturned couch “Hyperconcentrated variant. Called White Lightning. Ten times the normal intensity. With a dash of amphetamines and a sprinkle of this weird shit, MDMA. Enhances the empathic aspects of the high, sexs it up as well.”
    On feet that seemed to melt off into the floor and infinity, Thompson strolled past the couch, pausing to stare at the squelchy hole in disbelief.
    He pointed to the hole. “Did I-“

    “Yeah. You fucked the couch. For like three hours, too. ”

    “Jesus. That’s disgusting, and degrading, and can I have some more?”

    “Sorry, fresh out. I don’t even have any coke on me. Shit’s rare too. As our lawyer, I advise you to consider investing in it. With your prestige attached to it, it will no doubt move into the market in increased quanities. Fluuuurthhhur moooooooorrrrrrr…”
    Oscar’s voice melted into complete unintelligibility as the colors of the room became a trillion times as intense. His body melted into a puddle of laughter and awe, and all was right with the world.

    “D-U-U-D-E! “ The great shock of sound ungelled his being. “…what?” he managed to whisper, brushing aside cubes of floating unease.
    “We’re leaving. I’ve got a gala. You’re coming with, I need a guest.
    Even high as a duck on a electric sheep urfing the moon, Thompson knew this to be absurd and dangerous and irresponsible. Should he not do it, despite that? “You want me to prance around and hob nob with your friends while I’m melting through the walls on super acid?”
    “Yep.”
    “….when do we leave?”

    END OF PART 1

    PART 2

    Gallivanting Gala of Gravitationally-Challenged Geeks and Generally Grateful Geezers!!!!!!

    A shriveled cone of orange hair and fleshy, lipstick-smeared lips, eyes full of wine and death drifted by, leaving a trail of fluttering, incandescent triangles. Hunter vibrated with horrified awe.
    “Holy Christ, Oscar! You didn’t tell we this would be full of…of….THOSE!” he franticly gestured to a puffy man in a too small suit, his bulbous face soft and rotted with excess. His nose crawled off his cheek and hopped to his shoulder and then the floor. Thompson made a note to keep an eye out for it.
    Oscar gently wrapped his arm around Hunter, causing a brief twinge of fear to rocket through him (SNAKE ON MY BACK FFFFFFFUUUUUU) and grinned at him evilly.
    “You mean politicos? Relax, mano. These shitbags are so anethsetized on Valium, they wouldn’t bat an eye if you dropped your pants and fucked the turkey. So relax…have a cocktail, yo, WAITER!”
    A seedy looking asian with wormy lips slunk over and handed Hunter a tiny cocktail with three olives. “Look guys” said the middle olive, “I know that it’s a touchy subject, but I think that colonic irrigation is an excellent procedure for your general health. It softens your stool, it helps loosen you up for a big day, and to be honest-“he lowered his voice and beckoned them into a huddle with his stem “-FEELS GOOD MAN.”
    “Excuse me, gents, but I wonder if you’d mind if I ate you?”
    “Huh? Oh, right. I guess you’d better.”
    “Say, since when do olives have rectums, anyway?”
    “That’s the least of your problems right now, buddy. You might wanna watch your volume.” The olive winked at him, and suddenly melted back into inanimateness.
    He noticed a deep, sudden silence. He looked up and noticed the waiter, and several other nearby people staring at him in confusion.
    “Uh…heh…just kidding…old…family gag….”
    The boiling faces around him slowly faded back to their jangling conversations. He sucked down the cocktail. The olives nuzzled his upper lip, somehow conveying an infinite, Christlike love to him in warm, ecstatic vibrations. He stood for a minute, the vermouth leaking all over his hastily applied suit, mind reeling at the depth of this sensation. He put out a hand to steady himself, and let out a soft moan. Oh Goooooood, the tablecloth! Holy christing fuck! Every fiber was a distinct explosion of sensation!!!!
    A paroxsysm of orgasmic proportions sent him to his knees (HIS KNEES LIKE BEING MADE OF LOVE AND PLEASURE DEAR GOD NIRVANA!!!!!!)and lay back, moaning. The ceiling swam in pulpy waves the colour of the taste of grass. This went on forever. After forever passed,a ring of faces, lit from within by some brilliant light appeared. A pretty girl with dewey eyes said something that felt like honey being remembered, and hunter orgasmed into the arms of god, nearly screaming with the sheer vital, awesome POWER of it all.
    Oscar! Like a mighty wind, he shooed them away (he picked out the words “heart condition” and “a little stressed” before he lept into Jupiter’s primeval gases).
    The universe EXPLODED! His every ounce of being suddenly seemed to drain to ther side of his face. For a moment, the thought he’s split into two hunters like a sponge, but the slow awareness of something like pain cleared his head enough for him to realize he’d been slapped quite hard on his cheek.
    “Hey! I’ll have your wetback ass deported, you incomparable ape! Unhand me!”
    He realized they were in a car.
    “What.”
    “What’s wrong?”
    “We were just-didn’t we go to that gala?“
    “….dude, we just got into my car….”
    END OF PART 2


    PART 3

    CAR!!!! Crashing Catastrophe! Crazy! Cunt-Mangling Creepos!

    The engine vibrated everything with a smooth hum, and Hunter was suddenly aware that the car could hear them. It massaged him (oooooooooooooh) reassuringly, but he had his suspicions about it’s intentions….
    “So, you were talking to olives, and then you came all over everything. Nice.”
    “What?”
    “You were just telling me about what you tripped about.”
    “Oh, was I?” Hunter fumbled out a cigarette, almost lit it the wrong way, fit it cursing into his holder, and inhaled, and then he screamed. It was as though every conception of beauty he’d ever reached, in writing, in fucking, in tripping, in drinking, in laughing, all of them, exploded through his lungs and through his brain.
    Oscar laughed, then suddenly shouted “Fuck! You’re cigarette!”

    Hunter was aware of a sudden sensation of warmth on his left pant leg, and of the odor of smoke. A smile lit his face as he remembered a family trip to Saskatchewan where he’d caught a fish with his bare hands, how sweet the sun was, the slippery feel of the oh dear god FIRE FIRE FIRE!

    All chemical interference was purged from his brain by a mighty surge of adrenalin. He franticly tore off the smoldering black pants and hurled them out the window as Oscar weaved in and out of traffic, cursing furiously.
    “Goddammit, those were my brother’s pants….oh, oh shit…no”
    The liquid note of a siren filled the air with the smell of sweat and horror. Hunter whipped around, and saw a mean looking good ol’ boy in a banged up Crown Vic, closing fast.

    “Shit, dude. The prisons around here are crawling with Aryans. They’ll probably recognize me, too. I’m a hard man to forget… I’ll be dead in two days, and the way you talk, you’ll buy it in five minutes.”
    “I’d argue with you, but seeing as you should be driving us the fuck out of here, I’ll pass. GO!”

    The red Cadillac had some piss in her, Hunter had to give her that. As they roared at 120 down the freeway, the adrenilin slowly ebbed from Hunter’s brain, and the rushing trees became a strobing blur, like a smeared, infinite smile reflected on a mirror. Sound melted away, and evetything was light and color and emotion. Flying! This must be what flying felt like! All weight was at an end, and the pulses of light of whirling strobes bcame the triumphant searchlight of whirling galaxies, proud in their incomprehensible vastness and delicacy, gossamer spirals of love that sung to him as they rocked through the abyss.

    A massive jolt shook this cosmic wool from Hunter’s eyes. He realized they were now parked on a dirt road, and the sirens had faded to a distant cachapony. He yawned, stretched, and grinned a sly devil’s grin at Oscar, who was slumped over the steering wheel, his freshly pressed suit now wet with sweat.
    “I had a good ride. How about you?”
    “...I fucking hate you.”


    Last edited by Toothpick on Wed Jan 28, 2009 1:49 am; edited 2 times in total
    avatar
    Ordin
    Admin

    Male Number of posts : 432
    Experience :
    4 / 504 / 50


    Ultimate End character
    Class: Gladiator/Judge
    Life:
    160/200  (160/200)
    Weave:
    30/30  (30/30)

    Re: Thompson's Tale of Towering Technicolor Terror and Tits!!!!!

    Post by Ordin on Wed Jan 28, 2009 12:33 am

    Oh my god, more. that was fucking amazing. a storygasm, even.


    _________________

    Good day prospective employer, I am both smarter than a hatful of periwinkles and prettier than two bags of smashed assholes.
    Priest Gaven
    avatar
    Toothpick

    Male Number of posts : 273
    Experience :
    2 / 502 / 50


    Ultimate End character
    Class: Gladiator
    Life:
    166/166  (166/166)
    Weave:
    18/18  (18/18)

    Re: Thompson's Tale of Towering Technicolor Terror and Tits!!!!!

    Post by Toothpick on Wed Jan 28, 2009 3:10 am

    Thank you, Mattikins.
    avatar
    Toothpick

    Male Number of posts : 273
    Experience :
    2 / 502 / 50


    Ultimate End character
    Class: Gladiator
    Life:
    166/166  (166/166)
    Weave:
    18/18  (18/18)

    Re: Thompson's Tale of Towering Technicolor Terror and Tits!!!!!

    Post by Toothpick on Wed Jan 28, 2009 11:15 pm

    PART 4

    Vainglory! Vanished Vanguard, Vodkadic Vibrations!

    After a half hour, the sirens disappeared altogether, and Oscar sagged in relief, and also because of the half a bottle of warm vodka searing its way to the soles of his feet.
    “I kinda lied to you earlier, Dukeboy.” he said sheepishly, rooting through his inner coat pocket.
    “How so?” Thompson puffed at a cigarette, and felt a vague disappointment that he didn’t again implode in inconceivable ecstasy.
    “I got some more White Lightning on me….” A crinkled plastic baggie, damp with fearsweat, within it the form of delicious paper squares dripping with hypersonic acid, enough to send them both clear to the eighth dimension, where rhombuses quivered under the watchful eyes of immense eyetrees, and time ate itself and shit out an emotion equal parts joy and insanity.
    The mere sight filled his mouth with hot drool, and the edges of his vision twanged like a plucked guitar string, seeming to whisper to him to erase this cursed solidity and boring stillness that madmen called reality.
    He tried to suck some resolve from a cigarette, and was faintly disappointed when it worked. “Nope. It’s not as good immediately after, you ignorant porch monkey. Get the taco fumes out of your brain! Now, we are being actively pursued by the police, even if it is at a lower key than before. So-“ he threw open the door, leapt to his feet, stumbled over a log, swore, and struck a pose of defiant cocksureness, his scrawny chest puffed out, mad little eyes boiling with giddy hatred, “-we must act QUICKLY!”
    “Act quickly….to what?” Oscar clambered out of the car reluctantly, and sat on the trunk lid, legs crossed, looking for all the world like a suntanned, well-dressed Buddha.
    Thompson chortled triumphantly. “WELL OBVIOUSLY….I don’t know yet….Bt, It better be QUICK! We’ve got road blocks all around, no doubt, and maybe police dogs, oh my saints, we should wash out the car, maybe take baths in this stream….Oscar? ARE YOU ASLEEP!!!!!!”
    Oscar started blearily. “Not anymore, asshole….”
    “My God, we are in mortal peril! And your…your response is REPOSE??!!”
    “God, you are intolerable on amphetamines…Look, we should just lay low, eh? Trust me, I’ve delt with this scene before. It’s a big forest, and the cops get bored easy around these parts. We’ll wait a day, then slink out of here along the back roads till we get to a hotel.”
    “Do we even have any money? And by the way…where the hell are we? I’m fuzzy on the last week. Or three”
    “We’re in tha South! Backroads of Kentucky, I think. I had that gala to raise money to defend persecuted minorities, which I just missed because you fucking BURNED MY 700 DOLLAR PANTS THAT ACTUALLY ARENT MINE AND JESUS YOUR LUCKY IM DRUNK RIGHT NOW!”
    Any previous resemblance to Buddha had disappeared, and indeed the figure of the car now resembled Satan, incarnate in the pudgy rolls and twitching, furious lumps of one Oscar Zeta Acosta, coke fiend and human rights crusader.
    An anxious second of still rage, then a smile cracked the awful visage as Thompson, face full of remore, tried to step forward for a hug and instead wound up nosedeep in cool mud. The smile further broke into shards of high, hysterical laughter as Thompson writhed, swearing, trying to find his hat in the dull twilight, and finally stopped as he bend over and stuck the soft cloth shell over his own head.
    “Oooooh, Doctor of Journalism!!! Wordsmith of the Ages!!!” Chest thrown out, he pranced, eyebrows wobbling in broad parody.
    Thompson rubbed his baldness, and smirked. “Yeah, okay. Now give me my hat, you….double nigger!”
    They emptied another bottle of cheap vodka between them, and greeted the dawn swearing and squinting.

    Sponsored content

    Re: Thompson's Tale of Towering Technicolor Terror and Tits!!!!!

    Post by Sponsored content


      Current date/time is Wed Dec 19, 2018 12:54 am