Death By Price Gun, Part 11:
"CONCLUSION: Resurrection of the Cock Zombie"
I sat out there in the cocksucker chair, holding the blood-soaked price gun in my hand, looking up at the sky and noticing that the full moon was still there above me. It was a cold February morning but I felt warm. I felt the silent, soothing pull of the magnetic moon twisting and turning in my veins, boiling my blood and giving me an erection. I wanted to blame the full moon for me killing the dicksucker, I really did, but as I sat there I felt the chill wind blow against my hard cock, freezing the drops of cum that painted my purple cock head and I thought of how my life had been ruled by morbid masurbation. All of my illusions began to evaporate inside my mind. I realized that I didn't owe $50,000 to Taco Heaven for tacos I'd gotten on credit while working there. I owed that much money for my fucking STUDENT LOANS and my head had been so fucked up during college that I didn't even get my degree. And here I was, MOPPING OTHER PEOPLE'S CUM for a living, owing half my wages once a month and I took care of my problems the same way the arcade customers did, by looking for something to fill the hole, running for something, following an impulse that satiates for split seconds then seems to agonize afterwards for all eternity.
I remember once I read St. Augustine's Confessions and he talked of how, once he realized that his lust for the flesh, for the pleasure found in a warm vagina and soft milky breasts in his mouth, was actually a divine impulse, a subtle hint indicative of a human need for the love for GOD, he began to treat it as such, renouncing sex and focusing all of his lecherous drives toward the church, redirecting them and transforming them into LOVE for his religion and maker. But just as my delusions that all blood is salsa, all semen is sour cream and that my heart is a taco and a taco is symbolic of communion with the Son of Man and oneness with the world, my delusion that God even existed evaporated long ago. So like Augustine I agreed that my lust was in actuality a yearning for the divine but in my mind the divine was DEAD and my lust was a need for DEATH and this haunted me, this tortured me, this screaming, killing feeling of my blood boiling when I look at a naked woman or pornography; when the blood of Christ drips from his feet and palms as he agonizes on the cross it doesn't fall the ground but it rushes to my fucking COCK, and I think of this dead man, this hanging dead guy crowned in thorns that I worshipped as a child and how he FAILED me, and how, if I just stroked my cock and thought of him with nails in his hands; if I stroked my cock and cried long enough that eventually I would hear him moan. If I looked at all the death in the world, all the war and stupidity and people killing one another and JACKED OFF to it, all of it, that eventually my brilliant, shining white cum so full of LIFE would splatter on the cross; it would smother my mother's crucifix, blanket my father's burial shroud and they would all come back from the dead like Jesus was supposed to have done.
But we all know he didn't. He's dead just like the chronic, incessant dick-addict lying in the marquee area of the arcade. I looked up at the moon, wearing my werewolf mask, and suddenly began getting a better insight into my lycanthropic nature. I began to understand it all, why I liked to morbidly masturbate while thinking of dead people was because it was a driving impulse toward CHANGE, the irony of bringing the dead back to life by splattering it with cum was parallel to the process of making a baby, shooting semen into a dark womb that summons me toward Augustine's love for God with is my lust for DEATH because I don't believe in his God, but through his secretly sexual symbols and through the myths of countless others throughout time I will still find my way to the gold in the darkness. Bringing the dead back to life. The death of Christ was what I felt underneath the bewitchment of the moon and in order to overcome this, to transform this I had to look at the LIGHT, and the more I stroked my cock while sitting in the cocksucker chair the less I saw of that milk-white, rotten round orb in the sky. A cold, comforting dusk began to set in. I felt myself transforming, stroking my cock to the moon, doing it so hard that I had to stand up and SCREAM at it, shout and spit at the moon until it slowly began to become the SUN.
Then somewhere, a baby was born in a filthy hospital. And that's when I heard him moan, I heard Christ moaning in the tomb, about to wake up and that's also when I turned to look into the arcade and see the dicksucker getting up from the floor. Had all of my morbid masturbation paid off? Slowly, the dicksucker arose from his short slumber. It was no longer salsa that splattered his head but it was BLOOD and I had to face this fact. The chunks that fell down his face were not seasoned ground beef from a taco but they were his fucking BRAINS, and I had caused it, this cock zombie was erect, both on his feet and with his rigid member. His morbid member had arose as he stumbled toward me, his zombie cock hanging out of his fly and twittering up and down, jittering as he laughed like a mortified clown and I knew what he wanted. And I knew I was going to let him do it. I felt myself transforming along with the landscape. The sky became a gorgeous eerie reddish orange of spooky winter light as I sat my bare, hairy ass back down in the cocksucker chair and began to cry. Tears fell down my furry werewolf mask as I fought them off. I watched as the cock zombie knelt down before me. His head was caved in. A piece of skull rested on his purple, blood-caked lips and I saw crucifixes in his eyes as he smiled and lowered himself upon my throbbing engorged Golgothic piece of wood. I gasped as he began to suck it, letting my cock go all the way into his throat as I squirmed and shook, jerking my head up and down, back and forth as I rocked in the cocksucker chair and wanted to die, looking up at the rising sun and feeling my balls radiate a pink, purplish light that rose from my crotch and bathed the zombie's face as he licked the tip of my dick, slowly, gently rubbing his blood-stained tongue along my shaft and saying, "This is how they taught me to do it in Heaven. I wasn't up there long enough to practice much so I hope this feels okay."
"I think when I killed you I was trying to kill myself," I said to the cock zombie, delirious and thinking in symbols, oblivious to the mundane reasons why I had bashed the guy upside the head with a price gun, knowing those reasons were indicative of a yearning for something higher which at the time I found in murder. The pleasure was unbearable as I felt my hardon being gulped into the gallows of this prick-painting post-mortem felatio-freak, my soul soaked with emotional pain and the feeling that I was dying inside while another creature arose within me the way a baby possesses and grows inside a woman as a symbol of true communion. I began to quietly moan. I quit crying. The sun became brighter as the zombie went up and down my cock furiously, caressing my balls as he did so and it wasn't long before I began to HOWL, feeling the beast within and seeing the angels up above me laughing, they were singing as my semen splattered the zombie's face. I just sat there gasping, sweating as the sun beamed brighter and blinded my eyes so I had to put my head in my hands and when I looked back up the zombie was gone. And then I heard my boss yelling for me, saying something about another phone number being written in the bathroom.
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