Tight as a coiled spring, he eyed the playing children. With a sudden gesture, he peeled a cap from the nearby scalp of a kickball-bearing rapscallion, and spat long and juicy spits into the matted hair that sprang into sight. Somewhere deep inside his twisted cerebellum, synapses began to fire and snap; he emitted small popping sounds barely noticeable to the crumpling child. Then a protracted gurgle, climaxing in a what resembled the scream of a cow being slaughtered, announced the onset of his delirium; shooing away the excess juvenile baggage with a scattering of Krugerrands, he produced from his long black coat a small doctor’s bag, and dragged the confused child into an alley. Nervously glancing skyward where the dark Floridian storm clouds had begun to gather, he opened the kit bag, extracting a clean white handkerchief and a liter of ether. Without further ado the child was subdued. Soon, whirring noises could be heard overhead as the powerful Navy chopper dropped its rope ladder down into the alley; nearby in tenement apartments, thousands of senior citizens watched the New Jeopardy Game.
“Thank God you’ve arrived at last,” the man said to the militia as they clambered down to his assistance, “for never, in my opinion, has a young lad been in such need of a sodomizing.”
“Glad to be of service,” the Major offered cheerfully, “the men and I have been at sea for quite some time now and we could use the R and R. I think you’ll find that our equipment is of the latest design; technology at its most compassionate, if you know what I mean.”
“I believe I do,” said the head of the security forces, who, now fully undressed, was sharpening a scalpel while flogging the young lad with the strap, “but I may well demonstrate that even the most antiquated of tools can have a telling impact on the sensibilities and yield up the most piquant and puissant sensations.”
“Well there’s no reason to delay our pleasure in this urine-soaked alleyway,” the Major urged, “up, up and away.”
The scene was rapidly transferred into the helicopter without the security chief abating his lashing; a young lieutenant was assigned to fondle his bum during the operation, and the Major himself sampled orally that most antique of tools. “Well boys,” a husky female voice said, “are you being naughty, and if so, may I help?”
“Today’s catch is very fresh,” said the security chief, “and has been readied for the operation. I hope it will be not amiss if the necessary surgery leaves your vehicle in some disarray.”
“Disarray is my middle name,” moaned the blonde Corporal pulling aside her uniform to reveal a taut, shaved pubic mound.
“Do not show me that trash,” said the security chief crossly, “I cannot maintain an erection in the sight of Nature’s error. Turn around so that your ass is within reach, and carefully conceal that despicable cesspool of reproduction from my view.” The corporal quickly obeyed the command, squatting on the face of a sleeping private nearby, whose snoring now ceased to fill the cabin and was replaced by the sound of wet liver being slapped against a clean formica counter repeatedly. “Major, recite the verses, " said the chief, gathering the surgical equipment around the hapless boy, “and adopt the appropriately ceremonial tone and posture.”
Soon the sound of march music filled the happy ornithopter:
“The songs of wretched evils,
Steak fries blasted in the chasm,
Blankets soaked in love’s creamy dressing
Coinciding with steep taxi fares. Ah!
Coleslaw shall fill my orifices, I shouted to my mom;
I branch out, I coagulate, I wax honorific.
Nearby at Lucy’s soda shoppe, pimply teens burst out in lust;
Anchored tugboats suppurate and vomit forth Shasta.
Violent striking dock workers lather up in leather bars
And stir glib tonic water vials, with lemon, and cigars.
‘Grease up! Grease up!’ the cry rang forth,
said teens they did take note;
Truth is beauty, and beauty truth….”
“Enough poetry for now, Major!” the security chief commanded, “Ahm a-feelin’ a hankering itch between ma cheeks, an itch that thou shalt scratch!”
The Major, who had clearly wished to continue with his poem, reluctantly began to make the initial preparations for compliance, but as he stripped off his clothes, a brilliant light filled the copter. After a painful retinal adjustment, the crew realized that the light was emanating from the virgin anus of the young boy, flooding all inside with its holey luminescence. “Something phenomenological is going on in there,” said the Chief, squinting into the nova-like donut; let’s fuck it post-haste.” All the members of the crew, except of course the Corporal, who had left her strap-on back at the base, became erect at the thought of cementing the shining flesh pastry with so much knockwurst.
Private Hardart was the first to venture into the source of all being. As the ass was untried, much huffing and puffing was required, but at last he was installed completely and enjoyably. The Private’s face seemed to radiate with pleasure as he moved to and fro, edging toward his spasm. It was not until he dismounted and lay on his back, in the splendid anesthesia that follows such exertions, that the company discovered the appalling truth. “Gentlemen,” the Chief declared, “this astonishing ass dissolves prick. Hardart’s hard-on has vanished without a trace!”
Hardart looked down between his legs in dismay. “But I feel it, Chief!” he cried, grabbing his now invisible instrument and trying to get the company to touch it (which no one was willing to do). “Have we been somehow blinded by this accursed flashlight-bardash?”
“This must be a Soviet trick!” cried the Major. “Let’s see if the little twerp understands Russian. Corporal, bring your fluent twat over here and whisper into the little KGB asshole and see if you can’t get him to surrender something of use to us.”
Dutifully, the Corporal brought her lingually learned labia up as close as she dared to the shining asshole, and, with much contortion of her lower frame, brought forth these words in flawless Moscow dialect: “Zdravstvuyte, tovarishch! Mnye nuzhen vasha lampa! Vy ponimayetye?”
In hushed tones the crew whispered to each other, pregnant with anticipation of the asshole’s response. For a long time, the asshole neither spoke, nor made any sign; but then finally (although whether it was a response or the fruition of an unrelated process, it would be difficult to say), after an apocalyptic flatus, an immense flood of a diarrhetic substance of the consistency of thick pancake batter issued from the boy’s glowing derriere, covering many observers with its telltale stains.
Calling forth all the training of a Marine, the Major jumped into the spray and, like the clever little Dutch boy of Folklore, proceeded to sacrifice his healthily-endowed dong and rendered it invisible with one fatal thrust.
“Good work, Major,” said the chief. “This boy may be of some use to us. Corporal. Can you think of any security advantage to having an invisible member?”
“Let me see…” the Corporal pondered the question for a moment. “Ah yes, there is an application for a crystal-colored copulative cunt-crammer. Let me explain exactly what I mean…”
Before she could finish her explanation, loud declarations from the chief indicated that the Major, firmly in the breach, fighting nobly for the cause and at greater length than Hardart in his immaturity could manage, had become not only transparent in the prick but translucent in the buttocks; the invisibility seemed to be spreading. “Look at his testes!” Hardart spurted, “they’re glowing like two malevolent eyes, almost calling me forth to do their bidding!” Suddenly Hardart’s anus began to cackle loudly, causing Hardart no little discomfort. Seeing the danger multiply, the corporal quickly opened the flying copter’s door and, in the final seconds before Hardart actually exploded, managed to edge Hardart towards a more humane demise. Hardart blew up above a shopping mall and scattered unexorciced debris on many blue-haired ladies in polyester. Interestingly enough, Hardart’s invisible penis, separated from the rest of his body by the explosions within him, flew five miles through the air and slipped through the open window of the Johnson’s kitchen , plopping down into the stew simmering on the stove for the evening meal. That evening, the Johnsons remarked on:
a) the exceptionally good flavour of the stew and
b) the presence of what appeared to be a chicken neck they didn’t recall including amongst the ingredients.
Being a poor family, a fight ensued over who was to get to chew the meat off the neck, with cute little Jenny, the 4 year old, prevailing at last, happy but a bit confused by the absence of a bone. Jenny, later the subject of extensive psychological and parapsychological investigations, grew to an astonishing height of seven feet, with breasts to match. These mammaries, the doctors noted, were motor driven and could hurl curd at incredible rates; there was no stopping her. But back to our heroes.
With Hardart’s hard-on out of the way, the crew was now able to refocus their attention on the young boy, who, having given ample evidence of his rectal prowess, was beginning to come to. “This boy is a weapon. If his ass can atomize an erect Marine, God knows what his prick could do!” cried the chief. The Major, still toiling at his post, was invisible up to the eyes, and in those a look of unmistakable anguish and horror was evident.
“Perhaps the cure, Major,” said the chief, “would be for this amiable young chap to fuck you in a spirit of reciprocity, hence undoing what passion for his bum has wrought in you.”
“Right-O, then,” cried the angst-laden phosophorent one, “rouse him quickly while I prop myself against this bulkhead.”
“But how will he know where to ream you?” asked the Corporal, feverishly rubbing her pudenda.
“Just by looking for the whites of his eyes,” put in the Chief. “Major, you may now de-ass; for this excellent work you may expect a medallion, if you do not combust first. Now, Corporal, is the juvenile instrument readied?”
“Mmph, ahmmm, mmph…I mean yes, I think so sir”, the Corporal replied wiping her lips, “I’ll just feel along the Major’s topography until I reach his spasmodic pleasure center.”
The Chief assumed battle posture and called out to the Corporal, who managed the boy’s orientation, “Ready.. Aim… Fire!” With all her strength the Corporal squeezed the lean cheeks of the dazed boy’s ass with one hand while the other groped further between his legs urging his young sex globes to issue forth the so badly needed fluids of redemption. The all but invisible Major moaned as the cannon yielded its medicine. “Look!” the chief cried, “his cheeks are crimson again and his opacity returns.”
“But he has also turned into a frog,” the Corporal noted.
“True,” the chief responded, “but the Navy always has use for those trained in the amphibious arts. Another mission successfully completed!”