Sensitive Nurture

"Sensitive Nurture"

Weebo Krantz journeyed far and wide to find some sanity shred in this heebie-jeebied world of Communist transgression. But there was none, not one bit of solace, not one touch of serenity. People were moving faster, ruder; the extra-large acted as if they were gods, while their runt abominations either pickpocketed you or spit on your shoe or clutched at your crotch and humped your leg. Weebo Krantz found himself sobbing pitifully several times a day.

By the time he got to Brisbrain, Nova Scrotum, the physical pain of depression overpowered him so greatly that he had to stop. He stayed in his motel room for weeks, made sure the maid service did not entrench upon his space, --- made sure the mestizo pion didn't even get a chance to open the door, stick her head in and peek inside. Weebo paid the proprietor punctually because the proprietor was more his speed: --- was a shrewish Hungarian man who never bothered him, never said a word when he was in his company, only drank his bourbon slightly messy and kept his eyes fixed to a tiny set that ran nothing but black-and-white movies, all the old classic ones, like "Good Night And Good Luck" and "The Man Who Wasn't There".

Weebo Krantz would order pizza and Chinese. Pizza for late afternoon, Chinese for late night. Or Chinese for late afternoon and pizza for late night. In the mornings he'd always eat cold Chinese pizza since there was always leftovers.

Eventually Weebo found the need to solicit a prostitute. He flipped thru the phonebook and somewhere between the headings of Chinese and Pizza he found Escorts. He ordered a "young, skinny, white blonde" dish. Half hour later, knock on the door, and Weebo peers out the peephole. Opens the door. Three people. On the left a stereotypical Chinaman who appeared to be missing a rickshaw. On the right a stereotypical Italian-type who could've been needant of any number of things: perhaps a kitchen to bake sicilian and Tuscan cuisine, or a Mafia contract in order to do a hit on some labor union leader, or a mushroom to throw and a tube to enter and a cart to race and a Donkey to Kong. And inbetween these two wretched stereotypes was an attractive stereotype, one that was tolerable enough to be worshipped: The St Pauli Girl trying to be Britney Spears.

"What the blazes?" Weebo cried, for he was not used to this. Usually, when a callgirl/ escort/ prostitute/ hooker/ femhole was contacted, she either entered your room alone, had a cellphone on her and she would go to the bathroom of your room in order to do two things: one, look for the toiletries of a traveller, whether on the sink counter or in the cabinet below, to make sure you're a legitimate customer and not a vice cop; and two, make a call to the man outside, the protection, the bodyguard who had at least mace and probably a gun and was waiting for her to call within five-ten minutes and say that everything was okay else he would run in there and tear it all, everything, up. That was standard protocol when dealing with an escort. Once she'd taken care of all that, then the conversation could begin, the discussion with the john about how much for how long concerning what all acts. Oral, vaginal, anal; --- and most times, in these disease-infested days, anal was a rarity. Condoms always required. Kinda took the fun out of it. If you were married and you screwed an escort with her insisting you wore a rubber you couldn't really image that you were actually dirty scandalously balls-deep cheating like it was an affair or an office quickie or a one-night stand because it just wasn't reckless enough since most of these callgirl sluts were safety prudes, wouldn't even do the standard big-star porn thing and allow you to pull out and pull off the condom and climax on them; pretty much insisted that you came in the condom inside of them like you were just a pair of high-school sweethearts in the backseat of the parent's car and you both were praying the prophylactic didn't break . . . ---a sad goddamn shame on the state of carnal lust, acting as if pregnancy was the real adversary. But Weebo didn't have to deal with that since he wasn't married, wasn't attached to any girlfriend or woman of any sort, and to Weebo the thrill was just this perfect equation: cash = orgasm with female. Because it was so simple. It was normal, stock, swag . . . the way God intended it for it was the oldest profession in the universe. No surprises. Just an ordinary service. She lubed you up, put the condom on, lubed herself up, sucked you for a bit, and then you fucked her pussy and she would get you into it because she'd be looking at you but she'd also be looking ahead, would know how much time you had left and then it'd be the best automatic thing in the world: you'd orgasm; you'd pay her as she put on her clothes; and she would leave. That was the standard common service one came to expect. That was normalcy.

But not this.

The slut accompanied with TWO bodyguards, the bodygaurds coming into his room with her, and all three of these people being outlandish stereotypes?

"You gonna enjoy her, ain't you, round-eye?" from the Chinaman.

"Mama mia! you best well treat her with respect, because you can't refuse this offer!" from the Italian.

And the "young, skinny, white blond" dish didn't say a word.

Suddenly Weebo Krantz was full of rage, and, dressed only in the cheap urine-stained negligee which he lounged around in, he attacked. Before the Italian could brandish his gun. Before the Chinaman could unsheathe his ancient blade. Weebo punched the Italian in the Adam's apple, hard, so that the normal manly swelling was crushed into a feminine flatness, almost indentured. And, in the same assault-stride, Weebo round-kicked the Chinaman's barrel-chested rotunda, busted his breastbone and caused him to slump to his knees.

Then, with both the bodyguards flabbergasted and ineptituded, Weebo grabbed the slutbag and threw her on the bed. She started giggling as the Krantzster slobbered on her skin.

He raped her. Anally. Without a rubber. When he came she pushed and it felt as if her interior feces tried its damnedest to block his peehole, prevent the ejaculate from spurting, or flowing, or slowly oozing from his wienerage and at first he thought all the orgasm and the sperm was just happening within his meaty shaft, but he moved himself back and forth and got more and more friction as he orgasmed and, once his prick was satisfied, he was pretty much certain that he'd gotten all the semen --- and all the shit --- out of his dick. But he had to make absolutely sure. So, with her still giggling, he pulled out and inspected his limp dick and it was slightly coated in crap but the peehole was relatively clear and clean. Still, Weebo Krantz decided to stand over her and piss down upon her, --- she'd rolled over and he found himself micturating on her titties --- and, after having done this, Weebo knew that his urethra was free of all foreign matter.

As it only took Weebo two minutes to do all of this, when he turned his attention back to the other side of the room he saw the stereotyped Chinaman and the stereotyped Italian right where he'd left them: --- they were sprawled prostrate incapacitated upon the floor, and they weren't happy; if their moods could be said to have been of any "high spirits" whatsoever, then the buzz was a cacophonious mixture hellious and wrong, rot-gut swill with turpentine for the downer, pork-rinds crushed and snorted for the upper, and this whole fuckvatted shitball of trauma for the hallucinogenic insight.

Would they die? Would they live? Would anyone in their vicinity care? Weebo Krantz did not know, but he was certain that the best thing after a wanton act of heterosexual anal intercourse was fellatio. Thus, Weebo got down from the bed and he went over and pulled down the two gentlemen's pants and wrapped his lips around the Chinaman's dick because it was smaller and easier to suck and he jerked the Italian's horse cock like a cowgirl. Stereotypes all 'round. The Chinaman quickly came in Weebo's mouth because Weebo was a real man and real men know what pleases other men. The Italian was getting close to trigger via the hand and Weebo rushed and put his mouth on the swollen mushroom cap head and sucked and licked viciously and it spurted powerful against the roof of his mouth and then splashed down the back of his throat and Weebo was happy.

Sure, those two bodyguards were still in hurting agony from the container of whoop-arse crushed uncannily upon their skulls moments before, but at least their sexual essence of the current was pleasantly spent, released and relieved into the vast bastion of righteous inequity.

The quim-honey on the bed was still giggling but now she was sitting up, had her gams draped over the side like she wanted a hot shit-sandwich up in her grill so she could get a tasty meal . . . --- Weebo Krantz could tell this trim was different than most, because most carnal lust forced humans to the carnage of animals, slit the pig the cow the chicken the fish and the shelled up and cook and eat, but she wasn't that cruel: the stomach-grumble hunger caused by recreational exercisive coitus didn't make her crave animal meat, but it made her all coprophagus; Weebo Krantz could tell she was a shit-eater, an insect, buggy-buggy-bug. If he didn't give her a turd to gnaw on, and soon, why the bitch would be bugging him the rest of the day, long into the woebegone full-moaning then turn-around and snatch-flashin' night.

He knew she craved a succulent turd to nibble on like a bird until she couldn't take it no more and then the coose would gorge on the savory morsel and chomp and swallow and fill that cavernous needful gut. So Weebo Krantz squatted in the corner and squinted and squeezed and made some sounds and some smells and then finally some solid, a mass, a pile, a bunch of steamy chunks.

While this was occurring, the stereotyped Chinaman sat up and glanced around the room, took inventory of the whole place but didn't really concern himself with the people or the faces, only paid close scrutiny to the surroundings: the wallpaper, all peeled off, freshly, and draped down along and across and over the greasy puke-laden carpet; pizza boxes and Chinese food take-out containers stacked on the chair and almost reaching the stained ceiling tiles; and the television screen was broken, picture frames were broken, glass scattered like scratched-out dandruff, and the prints of ikonic Americana art --- a mountainous landscape with pond and dead body floater, a barn with a preacher joining a goat and a farmer in matrimony, and a neon portrait of a sweaty and double-chinned Elvis --- were strewn all about and tattered. These obsevations filled the stereotyped Chinaman with the emotion known as "pissy vinegar" and hence he sputtered out aloud the following diatribe of madness:

"Petey Stankton stole my baseball bat and killed a fetus with it! The worst pack of lies I ever spent. I needs to move back to Chiner, get back in The Party 'cuz they'll give me a little Red Maoing Book and I'll be a good boy this time! All straight and narrow. I'll jam it in my aftcrack and learn thru assmosis! Niggers suck spick dick!"

Weebo Krantz disregarded such misanthropic rudeness and hurriedly force-fed the cute Pollyannish prostitute his bowel movement. Not all of it, mind, but a healthy heartyman portion. She giggled no more; merely scarfed it down like the hungry hypocritical whore she was; one man's waste being some girl's taste, after all.

The Chinaman drew out his sword and challenged Weebo Krantz because he thought Weebo was being rude to the woman.

"You want a piece? Bring it, gook-weed!" Weebo Krantz snarled as he grabbed some more dung from his arsenal.

The stereotyped Chinaman thrusted and parried as Weebo flung; and, just as the Chinaman's offense did not connect with Weebo's body, so too did the Chinaman's defense not block the fecal onslaught.

"Heh-hah!" Weebo jeered in victory.

But it was not over yet. For the stereotyped Italian's wang was erect again, and he was standing, and the sight of the Chinaman's de-pants'd frame being splattered with scat lewdly enticed the Italian to buttslam him. And this he did. Which immediately caused the stereotyped Chinaman to drop his sword. And Weebo Krantz picked it up, and with one quick swift slash of streamlined finessic brutality he decapitated the both of them. Jets of red, the Italian's rocket docked deep in the Chinaman's socket as the two corpses fell over into the afterstrife together.

Pleased with his skillful handywork of mercy, Weebo Krantz licked their blood from the ancient blade. The taste was grand, as if he was having a nose bleed and at the same time was standing under a shower head that was spraying a rancid olive oil and Clamato mixture and the liquid was merging with his lifeforce and it was flowing into his mouth and he was lapping it up all feral-cannibal-yet-slightly-civilized.

Then a cool tap on his naked shoulderblade, the fingertip getting bad circulation with the brain fine with it, at peace with the weakened condition. And the twat showing she can do other besides giggle 'cuz now she finally say:

"Need more shit. I starvling."

Weebo Krantz drops the sword and THEN turns around to face her for to do it the other way would fail the test of common sense. He looks into her eyes, knowing that now is the time. Now is the perfect time for some intimate connection, personal and cerebral, since she's finally broke her fast of silent? wordless expression.

"I'm Weebo. Weebo Krantz," he said. "What's yer name, li'l darlin'?"

"Skanky Trollope." And she pronounced the surname like "can o' pee".

"Beauteriffic. The coining of your parentage defies normal artistry; it's terrifyingly amazing!" he commented.

And Skanky could tell that Weebo sincerely meant the compliment for he said it in complaining fashion.

"Please more shit in mouth thank you."

"Wow, dude!" Weebo smiled. "You is heller killer!"

He fed her his feces, what was left on the floor, what had been flung at the stereotyped Chinaman and was still clinging to his headless cadaver. When this pantry of victuals had been consumed, Weebo then reverted to the smelly stools that the wop and the chink had rigor-mortisly'd released when their bodies had lost control of all of life's tension, when their muscles had eased into the slack-jawed lethargy of dosed-to-drowsed-to-dozing-to-dulled dumb nulled numb death.

But it wasn't enough for her, this scat-swilling dame named Skanky Trollope. She was ravenous. And Weebo Krantz wanted to crap out more and more for her, but he just couldn't; he pushed and pushed until he felt as if it all were bursting and some of his innards came out all sore: --- his normal "innie" asshole became an engorged and enflamed "outtie" asshole, the hemorrhoids all raspberric and strangely reminiscent of a fat-lipped cherry-lab'd vagina.

"Gosh-a-plenty!" Weebo sighed. "We needs some prune-juice up in this here cunny! What I wouldn't give for a colonic, or an enema, --- just some sort of laxitive, some Metamucil or Ex-Lax or bran cereal or a sexy headshot of RuPaul . . . anything that'll get my bowels loosened, get my fudgehole wet and frothy and functioning!"

Weebo started praying, his mind much like the contemporary religiousified dishonest nut-job, --- the "to Whom" not as important as the "for What" --- but there was no satisfactory answer. And it wasn't fair. Because all those sanctimonious televangelists of subChristian FundsoPentupCostlyEvenJellyCulledMental cases always got what they wanted and Weebo Krantz couldn't get shit; but, maybe he wasn't selfish enough, and perhaps his hubris wasn't grand enough to be outmanna'd.

So he gave Skanky Trollope a rim-job of grandiose-dizing proportions, tossed that salad until his saliva turned it to soup, and then he took his filthy-filled mouth and placed it on hers but she went all crazy 'cuz apparently her own Number Two excrement was poison, dire deadly, to here, --- and she then turned away from him and vomited up some of the shit she'd already eaten, and then, like she was the momma bird and the baby bird both she gobbled up the regurgitated turds but all of this sickening sickness still wasn't enough.

So Weebo used the ancient sword to cut open the intestines of both the stereotyped Chinaman and the stereotyped Italian and he slit their tripe and hunted for fecal morsels, the upper intestines more foodery than shittery and thus of no service and the lower intestines more shittery than foodery but still not metamorphised enough into the fine fecal to feed Skanky's flaphole.

Something had to give it up 'cuz Weebo Krantz was bored disgusted by this crude conundrum, was done with this high-maintainence'd harlot's impossible demands. So he raped her puss-hole and slugged her in the mug at the same time, then used the ancient sword to cut a hole in her spine and he grooved his geyser-stick into that wound, porked that marblized meat until he spoo'd into the backside of her bladder, then he pissed in there; and THEN he broke her neck, pulled out.

Around midnight Weebo Krantz looked around at his life and realized that he was not hungry, wasn't in the mood for Chinese or pizza. He went into the bathroom, whetted and soaped up a warshcloth, took a whore hygienal, swiped the armpittenses and the t'ain'tery and then held the wet and soapy and now-smelly rag up to his nostrils and inhaled deeply. He grabbed his suit from where it was hanging on the shower curtain rod and put the peacenik-academic tweed on over his bloody shitty pissy cummy satin negligee. Went thru the stereotyped Chinaman's and the stereotyped Italian's and the stereotyped St-Pollyanna-Girl-all-Britney-Spearsic's money. Balls yeah! He'd have enough scratch for the next month at least.

Weebo Krantz then checked out. The proprietor was not at his desk so Weebo just left as much cash as was owed with a note that said:

"Dear Hungarian fellow,

Thank-you for not imposing your lame esoteric values upon me, but I regret to say that the past handful of weeks have not been a learning experience for me. I'm off in search of some sanity, some decency, and some peace. My depression has diminished, but my soul's still wormish.

Hopefully I will find what I seek in Venezuela or Zimbabwe or Branson, Mizzou. But my time here has come and gone, and therefore, adieu.

Sincerely,
Your sexy-dicked,
fat-assed admirer."

And with that Weebo Krantz was gone. Any further continuance of this tale is not applicable.