Monday, December 17, 2007

I had put in an inquiry for an interview with Professor Chomsky through an administrative aide in the Linguistics Department at M.I.T. who I "met" while he was auctioning a 1st edition of Come Back, Dr. Caligari on eBay (I lost). I said the interview was to be published in RADAR Magazine, which wasn't true because they had already stiffed me on my last published submission, but I wanted to meet Professor Chomsky badly enough to lie; not that I was too confident it would help much. I had pretty much given up when, weeks later, my phone rang.
'Is this Bachem?' a familiar voice asked.
'It is...'
'This is Noam Chomsky. I'm in Los Angeles and calling to follow up on your interview request. Are you available to meet?'
'Um, yes, of course, absolutely; when and where?'
'Can you get some Tina?'
'Uh, 'tina,' sir?'
'Tina. Christina. Crystal meth.'
'Oh, I didn't-- wow, is that really how the term is derived?'
'Do you want to question etymology with a Professor of Linguistics, or should I go ahead and trace the development of the term 'imbecile' for you?'
'Look, sure, I can probably get some. Can I take you to dinner for the interview proper?'
'Do you think I want to do meth to stimulate my appetite? Let's just get this out of the way: imbecile comes from the French imb├ęcile.'
I took a deep breath, wishing I could start the call over. 'Where would you like to go?'
'I've heard intriguing things about Valley Ball on Roscoe in Studio City.'
'But...that's a strip club.'
He sighed. 'The French imb├ęcile derives from the Latin imbecillus...'
I would come to dread his sighs.
'Where can I pick you up?'

There is an old German proverb: "Fortune and misfortune are two buckets in the same well." This was certainly true in the circumstance of my first sponsor in AA lapsing back into a desperate methamphetamine addiction, as it provided me with a hollow-eyed and considerably skinnier contact through which to purchase two grams of the stuff in the parking lot behind The Mother Lode in Boy's Town as the noted Professor of Linguistics waited in my car.

Professor Chomsky's face betrayed neither satisfaction nor disappointment as he tapped a small heap out of the bindle and onto a handy 'Arthur Fiedler Conducts Rhapsody in Blue' CD case from the center console of my Honda. I thought this had possibly bought me the latitude to ask my first question.
'What are your thoughts on the media bias the Left enjoys in America?'
He stifled a chuckle. 'I think there is a quite pervasive media bias here in America, but I doubt very much that the Left enjoys it at all, as it is nearly entirely controlled by interests working actively against it. This certainly accounts for how indisputably centrist positions are regularly colored and discredited as Leftist notions.'
'But, I mean, you're not disputing the idea of a liberal media, are you?'
The way he rolled his eyes lacerated me. 'The liberal media we hear so much about and so little from? Whose interests do you think they really serve?' He put a $5 bill over the granules and crushed them with a nickel.
'You must be aware of studies affirming that journalists are as a group mostly democrats?'
'It shouldn't surprise anyone that people whose job it is to be well informed are predominantly opposed to the policies in place; it would be shocking if it were otherwise. But they are part of a system of information distillation that takes as its mandate the even-handed presentation of opposite positions as though they were equal: centuries ago they'd have said the world may be round or it may be flat; to side with one or the other is editorialism, not journalism, so we'll regard the two notions as equal. Who is served by a media that elevates opposite notions of grossly unequal scientific or intellectual merit and holds them as equal, that for the sake of objectivity refuses to draw a conclusion when presenting them to a population largely unable to draw a conclusion for itself? Certainly not those who wish for a more enlightened citizenry.'
He ducked and snorted a short, fat line. He sat up and gasped a little, his head tilted back, before continuing:'The most amusing thing about the notion of the liberal media is that it is evidently so pervasive and insidious that it makes dupes of everyone, especially the intellectual elite; the only ones who are somehow smart enough to see through the pernicious shadow play the liberal media so compellingly presents are the least-educated, lowest-income segments of the population who rely on predigested perspectives from the anointed ministers of disinformation for everything they think and hold true. The whole worldview of these people operates out of their intellectual insecurity; when a Rush Limbaugh or similarly cretinous mouthpiece explains to them that by seeing things their way, they are actually smarter than all the people they feel inferior to, it is a temptation that proves quite irresistible. They feel enormous confidence questioning the scientific conclusions presented by preeminent researchers despite their own unsuccessful struggles to pass eighth-grade Biology. Here...'
He held out the CD case with a line for me.
'I, uh, can't. I'm sober, you see, I haven't...'
'Are you a narc, or are you a pussy? Do it.'
'Look, I'm not a narc, I just really...'
'This interview is over, pussy.'
'Wait. Wait.'
I took the case and the shell of a Bic pen he was using as a straw. Satisfied, he began again.
'Ann Coulter and I both came out with new books this year. Which of us was invited to make more televised appearances by the ‘liberal media’? If Conservatives really believed the media was so biased, do you think they'd have their appointees on the FCC rushing through legislation to further deregulate and thereby consolidate media ownership? They like what they see. They like what we see. If it weren’t firmly in their interest, they'd oppose it in even the barest theatrical sense. Instead, the pending legislation is largely unknown, because people are relying on the forces whose power it would increase to put aside their own interests and inform their audience about it. They will not, just as surely as that meth won't get up your nose by staring at it. What the fuck’s wrong with you?'
I leaned down and, exhaling and putting the pen to my nose, prepared to again take a newcomer chip at my next meeting.

Rhapsody in Blue is the most amazing piece of music ever written; I can't even tell you how genius it is. I just wanted to turn it up and listen to it over and over. I would've pulled over so I could really appreciate it to the absolute fullest, but the sensation of driving was too intense and invigorating and as a matter of fact life-affirming for me to even stop at traffic lights I would ordinarily have slowed for rather than accelerated through. For Christmas I'm going to buy a copy for everybody I know; I had to make a note to do that. Especially my parents. I love them so much. I suddenly had the most overwhelming urge to call them and tell them how much I love them. I made a note to do that as soon as possible too.

We arrived at Valley Ball, I paid our covers and we took a seat at a table off the runway. He looked up admiringly at a blonde dancing to 'Round & Round,' which may well have been the names of her obviously installed breasts, while I got our drinks--two $5 waters.
'What do you think?' he asked.
'She's got the invisible bra-effect'
'The what?' he said, not taking his eyes off her.
'You know, the immobile fake boobs, like she's wearing a...'
'The skin's real, faggot.'
'No, I mean-- she's great. I, uh, got us some water.'
'Thanks.'
He sipped while the dancer went around gathering the bills on stage. The dancers always move awkwardly on those vast heels once the music stops, don't they? I had to stop myself from asking her why that is.
'What's your name?' he asked when she got close.
'Desiree'
'Desiree, you were marvelous,' he told her.
'Thank you,' she smiled invitingly. She glanced back a couple times as she moved away; his eyes were locked on her.
'Professor, what do you think of the '9/11 truth' movement?'
'Not much'
'Can you elaborate?'
'Do you...' he searched for my name.
'Bachem.'
'Bachem, do you spend a lot of time talking to strippers?'
'Probably not as much as I should.'
'Well I do. Interesting thing about strippers: most of them, not surprisingly, have daddy issues. It's not unusual for children with profound resentment towards their fathers to have irrationally exaggerated estimations of their fathers' power and influence. How else, really, can they blame their fathers for the myriad dissatisfactions of their lives: what they do, what they are, what they're not, et cetera is seen by them as their fathers' fault. That they dropped out, did drugs, got involved with the wrong people, did things they regret--they blame it all on daddy.'
'And?'
'And so if you ask them whether the President was involved in 9/11, they're likely to either think it's very possible or be entirely convinced of it. Because such a view almost requires the mentality of a resentful child.'
'I don't quite understand.'
'There are two conclusions the events of 9/11 led people to. For most people, it was an awakening to the fact that very dangerous people mean us harm, and will surely try and in all likelihood succeed in attacking us again. The fact that this is so routinely used as a tool by the Administration doesn't make it any less true.'
'What's the other conclusion?'
'The other conclusion has been created by and for people who cannot resign themselves to the threat we are living under. It is easier for them to cope with the idea that an all-powerful daddy did this himself and cast the blame on others. They can’t face that someone else could and did pull it off; they need to cling to the idea that America is so all-powerful and safe that the only way we could be attacked is if we did it ourselves.'
'But what about the collapse?'
'Are you a structural engineer?'
'No.'
'You might want to talk to one, instead of getting your news from guests on Coast-to-Coast with George Noory.'
'OK, sure, OK, but what about Building 7. Don't you think that was a controlled demolition?'
'Give me some singles,' he said as a redhead came out to the opening of 'Pour Some Sugar on Me.'

I love this song!

'Say they did demolish building 7,’ he continued. ‘Even those most possessed by the theory have to eventually ask: why? The Twin Towers were down. The Pentagon was hit. Four planes were destroyed. Three thousand people were killed. What possible reason would anyone who engineered these events for their own purposes have to put all of that at risk for a suspicious building 7 collapse that did nothing to further their goals? It's not as though people were OK with everything that happened, but Building 7 was the ultimate outrage. There were no casualties associated with its collapse. If it was still standing today, the reaction of Americans and the response of our government would have been exactly the same.'

The redhead on stage revealed that her hair color was indeed natural.

'The slightest examination similarly debunks all of the component and often contradictory elements of this movement's paranoid patchwork "truth." It's all a weak-minded security blanket-mentality for those who want to believe no one on earth means us any harm except the Administration. It's entirely predictable. People do not want to believe that a lone gunman in a book depository can change the course of History; it's too senseless, too random. They need to invest these events with an all-powerful, if malevolent, guiding hand to make them comprehensible.'
'You don't think the Administration had anything to do with any of it? Nothing at all?'
'If they did, it would have been all fucked-up. Those dipshits couldn't direct traffic on a one-way street without issuing a $50 million private contract to manage the job for them. The desperation of this "truth" movement, which devalues the term ‘truth’ considerably, is such that the Administration that has executed events in Afghanistan and Iraq with such grim incompetence is somehow Godlike in its actions against its own people. It would be funny as fuck if these people didn't take it so dead-eyed seriously.'


'Paradise city!’ I gushed, ‘I fucking love this song!
He looked at me like a father catching his son wearing high-heels. 'Play some fucking Pantera, dick-catcher!' Chomsky screamed in the direction of the DJ booth. He turned back to me. 'What periodicals do you read?'
'Only two, really: The Economist and Muscle & Fitness.'
'Well-chosen.'
'Thank you.'
Desiree, now demurely wearing a diaphanous shawl over her shoulders, trying to re-instill the mysteries that had previously been revealed on stage, and a sizes-too-small bikini top that strained to withhold her surging squeeze-me's, hellbent for jailbreak, tapped on his shoulder.
‘Hi,’ she smiled, ‘would you like a dance?’
‘If by dance you mean have you grind on my lap while burying my face in your slobberbags, then yes, I certainly would. Can my friend buy you a drink first?
She sat down and motioned to the barmaid.

He called me his friend!

Desiree told us a little bit about herself. She was dancing to pay her way through school to be a dental hygienist.
‘What do you think of the 9/11 Truth movement, Desiree?’ Noam asked her.
‘Oh my God, I just forwarded all my friends an email about the fact that there were no airplane parts found by the Pentagon!’
‘Other than the Jet engines shown on the cover of USA Today on the following day?’
‘What?’
‘Oh, your drink…’
‘Thank you.’
‘Hey baby,’ said a large biker I was startled to look up and see looming over our table with casual menace. ‘How about you ride around on my lap for a little bit?’
‘She’s busy right now,’ Noam said, barely audibly. ‘Maybe the gentleman you’re with could start you off and she’ll catch up later?’
The biker looked at him uncomprehendingly. I was wishing we were exactly anywhere else.
‘Do you know who you’re talking to, gramps?’ the biker.
‘I think so,’ Chomsky replied, ‘though I’m not used to seeing you without the cop, the construction worker, the cowboy and the Native American fellow.’
‘You know, if a man said that to me, I’d bust his fucking head,’ he sneered.
‘Really? Because if I said that to a man, he’d have stopped running his fucking mouth by now.’
In an absolute flash, Chomsky had this guy’s nuts clenched in his right fist. The biker doubled over forward, and Chomsky used his momentum to grab the biker’s head and slam his face onto the marble tabletop. Blood was everywhere. I thought it had come from the guy’s nose, or mouth, until I saw Chomsky holding something in his upraised fist; blood was running down his arm.

It was the biker’s ear.

Either Desiree emitted a high-pitched girlish scream, or that was me. Regardless, there was lots of noise, and no one was really looking at anyone but Chomsky, who was smiling dementedly as he slowly lowered the ear. To his mouth.

He ate it.

Or at least appeared to. He chewed it with fiendish purpose in his arctic-blue eyes, and then spit it onto the biker's back, slumped unconscious in the puddle of blood spreading across the tabletop.
'Why did you do that?' I sputtered.
'I wanted to make surgically reattaching it somewhat more challenging. Desiree, why don't you grab a couple friends and come party with us?'
'I'll go get Monique and Cassandra and my stuff. Can you meet us in back?
'We'll pull the car around.'
She motioned to a friend and made her way backstage; Chomsky and I turned for the front door as Security approached the table, barking at the motionless biker to get up.
'You're going to have to speak up,' Chomsky said. 'The guy doesn't hear so well.'
A bouncer looked at the side of the biker’s head searchingly and, comprehending, suddenly threw up. We passed the biker's table and his friend glared at us. Chomsky stopped in front of him.
'You mad-dogging me, bitch? I’ll take your fucking eyes out of here in my pocket,' Chomsky spat. The friend sort of shriveled. 'That's what I fucking thought. Get your boyfriend to a hospital; when he wakes up, he's very likely to go into shock.'
Chomsky pushed ahead to the entrance. Once he walked away the biker's friend finally found his nuts and grabbed my arm as I tried to pass.
‘We’re going to get that motherfucker!’ he hissed menacingly. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Bill Kristol.’
‘Thanks, dude,’ he said, releasing me.


We got a $75 room with two twin beds at the Panorama Motel, about a half-mile south of the club, and by the time I closed the door Chomsky had pried the bathroom mirror off the wall and set it on the small table behind me.

'Where's the bindle?' he jabbed at me in a voice that really asked why wasn't he holding it in the first place. The girls, who were evidently most at ease when naked, set immediately to making themselves comfortable, and I handed over the meth stunned at the rapidity with which clothing was falling to the ground. Chomsky's expert mincing of the drug was all the more impressive for the fact that he did it while turned away and staring at our guests, who went immediately into a Sapphic floorshow he observed with keen interest.

He deftly swiped out five fat lines and leaned down for the thickest of them.

'Fuck! Fuckin' fuck!' Chomsky gasped as he straightened once more, head back and eyes closed, as if straining not to sneeze.
Then, smiling, he held the straw out. He didn't have to say anything for it to be snatched up and used, in turn, by our guests. As usually happens when going last, I was left the smallest of the lines. Still, every time I ran my fingers through my hair I had that crazy electric tingle all over my scalp, so I knew I was charging pretty hard and figured the ladies needed to catch up anyway.
'Hey! I just remembered the Republican Debates were tonight. Want to watch the rerun on C-Span?' I asked hopefully, turning on the TV.
Our guests looked at me like I just reached up my ass and pulled out a Bible.
'I, uh, just want to see who won...'
'I can save you some time there,' Chomsky said assuredly. 'Whichever of the candidates makes the showiest display of how his utter devotion to Jesus Christ guides his every thought and action, while at the same time expressing the most viciously unchristian attitudes toward the needy, the sick, our perceived enemies, and immigrants, will be recognized as the winner, by people unable to discern any contradiction whatsoever. Not that the Democratic debates are any more substantive, as they are basically dueling readings of the lyrics to the song 'The Greatest Love of All.'
'I believe the children are our future. Teach them well and let them lead the way...' I began.
'It's so obvious it takes real effort to miss it.'
The ladies had arranged themselves like the old muscle beach photos of one sitting on another’s shoulders on still another’s shoulders, only they were laying down and the one in the middle was facing the wrong way. Overcome with modesty, I averted my eyes to the dark television screen.
'Isn't there something you'd rather do than watch debates that are half Scripture-test and half cruelty one-upsmanship, Bachem?'
'Yes,' I said, feeling myself rise to the occasion and the challenge I suddenly felt weighing on me. 'Yes there is.' I started toward the door.
'Where are you going?' Chomsky asked.
'I'm getting some tools out of the car. I'm going to take apart that television.'


Breathlessly, I rushed back into the room and began unpacking my tools. Chomsky had, coincidentally, unpacked his as well, and the girls were marveling at his ample dangle, each caressing it and his hefty manbag with an awed shyness, like they were petting an animal that was not quite tame. I set to work taking off the bolts that secured the set to its base on the dresser.
'Bachem, is something wrong?' Chomsky asked. 'You're not upset about missing the debate, are you?
'Heck no,' I smiled, setting the first screw in an ashtray. 'Ultimately, one of them is just going to get beat by Hillary anyway.'
He guided Desiree and Cassandra's heads to his scrotum and soon they each had one of his heavy-hanging fruits in their warm, hungry mouths.
'You don't really believe that, do you?' he asked, searching my face for answers.
'Believe what?' I said, pulling the TV set off of the base.
'That any of them would be beaten by Hillary Clinton in a general election?'
'Why, of course I do.'
He sighed remonstratively. 'Any current candidate in the Republican field could campaign in a Gestapo uniform and still beat Hillary Clinton in a general election. And badly.'
'But...the polls...'
'Don't believe every poll they wave in your face, boy.'
'I can't believe the one you're waving in my face right now,' Monique cooed wetly. His manly angle had gone from obtuse to acute, to Monique's slightly intimidated delight. It half-twisted along its considerable length, looking strangely reminiscent of ‘The Object’ featured in the artwork of Led Zeppelin’s ‘Presence’ album. She covered his apple-sized crown with covetous kisses. Chomsky smiled at their three mouths set to his manworks, and patiently explained to me the facts of life.
'There is a part of the country that Democrats tend to forget about. It's called 'the South.' Have you been there?'
'Sure.'
'Well, she could win the NASCAR Nextel Cup, cure rickets, have Jesus as her VP, and run unopposed, and still not take a single state there. I'm not sure what electoral map her supporters are working off of, but it seems to me that the next-least incompetent Bush brother could run against her to easy victory.'
Desiree, with slight difficulty, pulled his tangerine-sized left testicle out of her mouth. 'Are you saying that because she's a woman?' she protested mildly.
'Not at all. It's because she has all the charisma of a lesion.'
'Oh,' said Desiree, setting back to work with a shrug.
'But she puts Ohio, Arkansas, and Florida in play without one step,' averred Cassandra, tickling Chomsky's scrotum mischievously with her tongue. 'I think she can build on John Kerry's showing and win.'
'This assumes an awful lot: that people who were motivated to vote by their dissatisfaction with President Bush, or because John Kerry appealed to them, can be automatically counted on to vote and to vote the same way. Republican and Independent critics of the President will be given an alternative within the GOP who will undoubtedly be more palatable or at least have fostered less resentment than has the President. And people in those parties who did not feel inclined to go out and vote were not driven to anyway by a deep-seated hatred of John Kerry. This last variable alone throws most of what Hillary supporters take for granted into the wind,' intoned Chomsky, gently guiding Cassandra's head back to his ballsack. 'Fuck yes, ahhh...suck my fat nuts.'

Monique let a long run of drool swirl around the head of Chomsky's cock and jerked at his shaft, too thick to close her hands around. 'Man, I think President Bush probably likes Hillary more than you do,' she chided.
'I shouldn't be surprised if that were the case. You have to remember that Democrats and Republicans are merely two arms of the Business Party that controls America anyway; they just wear different color neckties. And if there was some great divide between them, which there isn't, I doubt that anyone would like Hillary as much as hard-line Republicans do. There's a reason why you can almost hear 'Ode to Joy' in the background every time FOX NEWS goes on about what a great, formidable candidate she's make, barely able to contain their snickering. That reason is simple: she can't win.'

Monique was giving him the most magnificently sloppy blowjob I'd ever seen. The sound of the three of them slurping and sucking and slobbering on his outsized genitals was making concentrating on the television's insides very difficult, and I was already a little confused between my flyback transformer and my horizontal output transistor. Still, a question gnawed at me.
'What about Hillary's lead in the various state polls? Surely that's indicative of something hale in her campaign?' I asked.
'I envy your faith in polls; it must be very comforting. Keep in mind, though, that all Conservative mouthpieces are holding their tongues, anxiously awaiting her coronation, at which point an onslaught of negative campaigning the likes of which recent elections will in no way compare will be unleashed,' he said through gritted teeth. 'Desiree, I want you to lie face down on the bed so I can snort gak off your asshole.'
The girls rearranged themselves to comply with his request. He held Desiree's asscheeks open and tapped some of the bindle's contents onto her twitching rabbit nose of an anus. He lowered his face and snorted it without a straw, licking up what he'd missed. Desiree writhed against his burrowing face in pleasure. He tapped some out on Monique's asshole and she arched her back, holding it up for Cassandra to take her turn.
'But...' I said, struggling to comprehend, 'Giuliani and Romney have already run negative ads against her.'
'I know the spots you're thinking of. But neither of them are candidates trying to take her down. They are attempts by both Romney and Giuliani to elevate themselves among Republicans, using her high profile to do it. She's the opponent they want, so they're trying to match themselves up against her early for Republican primary voters to see. At the moment, Republican candidates are running against each other. The fact that they made slight use of her to distinguish themselves in that field should not be confused with an attack.'
'But the other Democratic candidates have been hammering her...'
'Hammering? The squabbling the MSM tries to make so much of between Democratic candidates is only polite jostling among individuals well aware that they may eventually share a ticket. This fair-mindedness will cease to exist in the general election season. Every misrepresentation of her policies, her past, her marriage, her sexuality, her business involvements, her donor alliances, her husband's Presidency--of which I am no great admirer--will obscure the candidate you have been so early in falling in love with. They will bury her.' He turned his attention to the task at hand. 'Now Cassandra, start lapping Desiree's pussy like a St. Bernard that hasn't seen his dogbowl on a while, and get that ass up in the air while you're doing it. You sweet bitches are going to see me lay so much pipe tonight, I'm going to owe plumbers union dues by the time I'm done.'

With no little trepidation, Cassandra positioned herself between her colleague and what would soon become her new best friend, Chomsky's massive snot-musket. He eased the hysterically oversized organ into her slowly, and her arms strained as she braced herself to receive it. Soon she was making noises of submissive discomfort not unmixed with exhilarated pleasure. He was still only halfway in. She reached back to hold herself open for him.
'Doesn't this analysis fail to take into account the number of the factors making the climate much worse for the GOP than it was last time?' asked Monique, rubbing her cupped breasts against Chomsky's back.
'What might those be, you sweet little fuckmouth whore?' Chomsky leered back playfully.
'I don't know--like the unpopularity of Bush and the war, the tarnishing of the GOP brand by scandal after scandal, that kind of thing,' she explained, pinching her nipples and dropping to her knees behind him.
'Unfortunately for Democrats, George Bush is not running in the next election, so taking animus against him too much for granted as working in their favor is flawed reasoning. Every reliably Conservative voter who might be disenchanted enough with the GOP over the endless flurries of scandals in that party to stay home will assuredly get out and vote if only against a Democratic candidate they hate so much it makes their eyes swell: enter Mrs. Clinton, and we need not rehearse the reasons why no candidate in the Republican field would be half as effective at motivating the GOP base to the polls as Hillary Clinton would.'
Desiree, who evidently cries when she cums, ground Cassandra's face into the folds of her ladyplace. 'What about the fact that the party that lost the prior election tends to improve substantially in an election where no incumbent is running?' she sobbed convulsively.
'It's worth remembering the party that does well in elections where no incumbent is running does well when they represent change. Hillary Clinton may represent change back, but she does not represent anything promisingly unfamiliar,' he responded, lifting Cassandra's right leg up, propping it on his knee and, holding her thusly peeing-doggie style, reaching underneath her to pinch her swollen clitoris.
Cassandra shook her head free of Desiree's grasp and, her face dripping with her fellow dancer's juices, gasped 'What about the erosion of support among Latino voters for the GOP uhhhhhh fuck my pussy!'
Chomsky reached back to stroke Monique's hair as she teased his anus with her tongue. 'I'm really not sure how the Latino vote will factor, but were I a Democrat I would not be inclined to wager my party's chances at leadership for the next 4 to 8 years on it.'
At this point, Chomsky gritted his teeth and began punishing Cassandra's hamtrap vigorously. He held her by her upraised right leg and her thin, backstretched left arm.
'Uh-oh-ah-uh-ah-UH-ah-UH-oh-AH!!!' she grunted as he bounced her off his pubic bone, at the mercy of a machine gone berserk. I wondered how whoever enjoyed her company next would even feel the sides. Her eyes closed in thrall, her smallish breasts bouncing in a blur; she looked something like a woman on a unicycle descending a very long flight of stairs.
'Stick your fingers in my asshole!' Chomsky commanded Monique, kneeling behind him, who complied promptly. 'Gnaaaaaah!' he heaved, releasing Cassandra, who fell to a spent heap before him into Desiree's outspread legs.
'Hold still!' he barked, leveling his chowdergun at them, squeezing back its venom as long as he could. Then it unleashed, blasting them with splash after splash of his gushing manblast. Monique hammered three fingers into his rectum like she was feeding belt ammo into an artillery gun, and the result seemed to be the kind of powerful hosing velocity usually associated with Civil Rights demonstrations. He exploded like an oil derrick that had tapped forces from deep inside the earth no human could hope to control.

When it was over, Cassandra and Desiree were festooned with hot, ropey ejaculate, like they had been too close to an industrial accident at a pancake batter factory.
'Sweet Jesus,' Monique said in wonderment, peeking around his hip to take in the scene, 'you're like a one-man bukkake shoot!'
Chomsky helped the girls to their feet, and tapped out some more meth on the mirror. Cassandra took the wobbly steps of a newborn foal over to the fresh session and sniffed up the sustenance she now knew she’d need.
'Would you like some, Bachem?' Chomsky offered kindly.
'I better!' I said. 'I didn't make any notes when I took these parts out. It's going to be a quite a job getting them back together.'
I stepped over the random television components--the picture tube, vertical IC, tuner, yoke, comb filter, driver transformer--excited at the work that lay ahead. 'If I don't remember where this electrolytic capacitator goes, I'm in for a long night!'
'Then I'm guessing you're in for a long night. That's a main power supply transformer,' he advised. 'Please excuse us; the jizz lizards and I are going to step into the shower now.'
He left me puzzling over the loose part as he and the giggling girls closed the bathroom door behind them and began a long, hot shower together.


By late the following afternoon, Chomsky and the girls had gone to the apartment Desiree and Monique share; they explained it was to leave me to my work while they slept off the debauch that had lasted well into the following day, but I did find it odd that they took the rest of the meth with them if that was their aim. No matter, I thought. Looking around at the television innards strewn all around the room--easily enough, it seemed, to build two televisions or more from--not to mention the mostly semen-splattered surfaces someone looking to rest themselves comfortably anywhere in the room would be hard-pressed to avoid, I was left wondering what kind of charges I might expect to incur on the credit card left on deposit at the front desk.

Thinking at this point it would probably be cheaper and smarter all around to get some more twack, so I could finish putting the television back together, clean up the whole room, get some rest and probably still have time to take the TV apart and put it back together one more time before check out time tomorrow, with excited fingers, I set to dialing my old sponsor's phone number...