Early Lycanthropic Case Study Involving
Tacofication Of Religious Symbology
By Taco Werewolf
Part 1:Church of Masturbators and Penis Suckers
 It was very early and I had just awoken; I was sitting on the couch of my tiny efficiency apartment, watching Trinity Television, the local religious cable station. The minister on the screen was giving a sermon, condemning men who cannot control their werewolf urges, their craving for hairy pussies and how these demonic men have drifted far from God, from the light, and how in their darkness they can do nothing but howl at the moon with their cocks erect. Their lust for hairy tacos and for the furry flesh of naked werewomen, the minister said, is essentially a lust for the grave and for death. And in this grave they will stay upon their deaths; their furry corpses will rot away as worms infest their skulls; while their souls are engulfed in flames they will scream; their hearts will melt; like ghosts, they will be forced to haunt the living in the place where evil dwells most dangerously. This was all happening in the booths in the back of the porn store where I worked and I knew there were evil spirits who dwelled there.
I got up every morning at 4am to get into the porn-store by 5am to start cleaning up their messes. When I arrived there I was greeted by Scott, the third shift clerk whom I knew smoked marijuana and suspected might be a child molester. This fact pained me to the ends of the earth but I needed a job so he had to work with the guy. After exchanging cold, distant greetings with Scott at the counter, I was once again back in the video arcade, mopping up their biological fluids. It was like a morgue for masturbators, a dark, maze-like area smelling of sweat and rotten semen. Hour after hour, day after day I was forced to come back here and clean up the messes of the filthy animals who did their horrible, sexually deviant deeds. They bought tokens at the counter up front. Then they walked back to the booths where they dropped their coins in the slot to view nasty images on a television screen. Dirty, immoral movies played, full of naked men and women having intercourse; their penises and vaginas were in full view for the customers to see, and it aroused them. They stuck their sticky tongues out, pulled out their erect penises and masturbated. Their semen fell to the floor in droplets, like little white dying holy ghosts, landing in puddles which I had to mop up. They sucked upon one another's penises, too, the homosexual ones who had drifted so far from the light that they sought love in the red, wrinkled scrotums of strangers instead of in the Bible; or from church. This was their church. This filthy, semen-coated construction of hallways and closet-like constructions is where they got on their knees, not to pray to the Lord, but to give open-mouthed worship to the sexual organs of desperate, damned men.
Part 2: A Werewolf To Clean Up Sin
It all disgusted me but I had no place to go. The anger inside me increased every day; it ate at my heart, left it black and with no ability to love. Seven years was just too long to do something like this, to sweep up all the used condoms and mop up the puddles of semen from the despicable sex acts of all these vile, pathetic men of the creepy moonlight . Every day, guy after guy came into the store. They would stand in the corners, waiting for a victim, lean against the walls; sometimes they would take out their dangling, disgusting private parts and show them to me to make me mad. Then they would laugh or scurry away like a rat. More and more, I fantasized about becoming a werewolf and killing one of them, and more and more my burden of misery seemed too great to bear. I often fantasized I was Christ, cleaning up the sins of the damned and every time I heard one of the perverts scream in pleasure it felt like a nail was being driven into my feet and palms. Christ had to come down and become a man to save humankind. Perhaps I would have to become a werewolf. My thirst for hairy tacos became greater.
Maybe I was schizophrenic and with a slowly evolving case of lycanthropia; I could find no other job I could do in my mental state and the hopelessness of my situation filled me with such anger, such hate, that my heart had grown black and then disappeared entirely. I was a "Lamb without a Heart," a once glowing emanation of light that had lost the capacity to love. I hadn't felt love for anyone in ages, not since I lost my last girlfriend, a girl I'd planned to marry, soon after my last mental breakdown eight years ago which left me in a perpetual state of apathy and aphasia; barely able to move; like a zombie I worked back in the video arcade, wondering where my life had went and what happened to my dreams. I was so depressed most days I could hardly move. It took all I had, sometimes, to bend down and wring my mop out as I watched the dirty, semen-filled, thick dark gray water fall into the filthy bucket filled with ghosts and bad, sick werewolf spirits. They howled at me from inside the mop bucket and I knew I would be baptized in that mop water some day. I didn't know exactly when, how or why but I dreamed about it often and knew it was only a matter of time before I was born again as one of the Lord's werewolves, those who delve into the darkness to get the gold, who live amongst masturbators and homosexual penis lickers in dark, labyrinthine hallways as they wait to draw Christ's blood from one of their victims' veins.
Part 3: Cum Mopper With A Lamb's Head
I walked to the very back of the arcade to mop and I saw it, the ghost of James. James was the janitor who had worked in the porn arcade before me. Sometimes he appeared to me as a normal human being, as a completely solid form; sometimes he was a translucent apparition. Other times, like now, he was a solid form, a complete body, and he had the head of a lamb. He had the head of a lamb, its white wool smeared and speckled with bright red hot sauce for putting in hairy tacos. The eyes of the lamb were carved out, leaving dark, empty eye sockets inside which one felt existed an infinite abyss of sadness. In the background, when James appeared to me in this form, I could hear hundreds, thousands of sheep baying in fear as if being led to the slaughter, to be turned into mutton for putting in tacos for the angels. Rich, red hot sauce poured in thin streams from the lamb's neck atop James' shoulders, at the seam where the white wool met human flesh; it streamed down James' dirty blue T-shirt, stained his semen-smeared, filthy blue jeans as he held a mop in his hand, looked at me and sent a chill down my spine. "Baaahahah," James said, barely moving his gray, thick slimy sheep lips. "I've already mopped this area," James continued in a human voice. "I mopped this area way before you were ever employed here and before I murdered my family. I had a heart back then when I first started working here. You did, too, but I can tell it is now gone. It's turned into a hairy taco like mine did."
James then lowered his lamb-like head and began mopping the floor of booth #12. I stood there and watched, knowing I was crazy with the lycanthropy and wondering whether this was all even real. I'd had hallucinations in the past and used to take anti-psychotic medication back when I could afford it. Either way it didn't matter because James was having an effect on me. It was true that James had murdered his family. 8 years ago, a month before I replaced him as the porn store janitor, James had had his fill of cleaning up after all the filthy animals; of cleaning their stalls and sweeping up their used condoms; scrubbing dried semen from the walls. He found no other recourse; in his tortured, haunted mind he could find no other way out but to kill himself. But he did so after first killing his father, mother and sister and her four year old daughter. He shot them all one night and then shot himself, in a hairy taco-induced rage. In the porn store's 20 years of existence, other janitors before me had had similar histories: there was a child molester who was imprisoned; one was a homeless senile old lady; another was a paranoid psychotic who attacked his boss and was fired; another was a lonely old man who simply sat upon the floor in a booth one night and never got up. James was the most recent before me, though, and the most similar to me, just a late 20-something bachelor who had had a hard time dealing with daily life. He worked as the porn-store janitor for 5 years and just couldn't take it any more. Every time a person ejaculated back here in the booths, they squirted ghosts and evil werewolf spirits from their penises which after awhile take their toll on a man's lamb-like soul if he has to clean it all up. Lambs can be eaten by werewolves so easily.
Part 4: Hot Sauce Drips From Empty Eye Sockets
"How long are you going to haunt me back here, James?" I said to the lamb-headed ghost. "How long before they let you go back home?"
James stopped mopping momentarily, then focused upon me with his empty, hot sauce-filled eye sockets. "Bahahahahahaaa," he said, "there is no home for a lamb without a heart. My heart has become a hairy taco and yours will too." James finished mopping booth #12; his apparition then walked through the closed door of #13 nearby as the haunting baying of the lambs in the background finally ceased and I was left alone, leaning on the mop handle and staring pensively at the dirt, white tile floor. After a minute or two, I walked into booth #12 to see if it actually had been mopped, whether I was seeing things and if James was just a dream. As usual, it hadn't been mopped, but when I began to apply my own wet mop-head to the floor it became soaked with hot sauce, the same shade of sick, diseased shining reddish-orange hot taco sauce that flowed from the white lamb-head of James' eye sockets; then the baying in the background commenced again. I looked above me to see nothing. I looked behind me to see a long dark hallway of masturbator booths. Going out of my mind, I saw all these small, globular haunting sheep eyes dancing between the mop strings. The baying of the lambs became louder, like the sheep were right next to me, screaming in my ear for their lives, begging for the werewolf spirit growing inside me not to eat them. They were being led to the slaughter, to be mutilated, their wool, like a soft flour tortilla, soaked in taco sauce and their severed heads to be placed upon James' sweet gushing neck for Christ and all of his angels to be talked about on the Trinity cable network which I watched every day before coming into work. James was their messenger even though he had done a very bad thing by killing his family. James was the lamb trying to prepare for the coming of the werewolf inside me.
Part 5: Kills Family For Eating His Heart
"James!" I screamed, dropping the mop to the floor and opening the door of booth #13. "James, are you in here?" But the booth was empty except for a full bottle of lube that was sitting upright on the floor. I knew who had put it there, one of the pathetic, pathologically chronic masturbators who was in the habit of taunting me and trying to get me to become one of them, to become a masturbator and join their flock of filthy animals with no eyes to see, only hot sauce to stain the white tortilla wool God had given them. I had told this man, a frequent visitor to the store, that I never masturbated because it was wrong to waste one's seed; it was abortion and God did not approve. This man, this masturbator, had scoffed at me that day, laughed at me for my religious beliefs, and ever since then, every so often this guy, this perverse, inconsiderate degenerate, would leave a full bottle of masturbator lube lying on the floor for me, accompanied with a note. I picked it up and it read, "Have you played with it yet? God loves those who play with it. Every time you touch your penis you tickle an angel's belly." In a rage, I crumbled up the note and threw it on the floor. I then covered my ears, trying to block out the insane, hellish baying of the invisible lambs bleeding hot sauce around me now; cramped inside the booth with me; their hot sauce-covered white tortilla shell wool rubbed against my face; against my semen-smeared filthy blue jeans and soiled, black T-shirt I hadn't washed in days, too depressed to do laundry; too diseased by lycanthropy to care about my appearance, I sat there in the booth, closing my eyes; covering my ears. I saw James walking into his parents' house that night of the murders. He had the eyeless head of a white lamb atop his neck, carrying a rifle as he walked into the family dining room. His family was eating at the table, but James couldn't tell what they were putting in their mouths. One of the substances, what looked like meat, appeared foreign to him. James' mother scooped some green beans upon her plate. His father sprinkled salt and pepper on what looked to be macaroni and cheese, all seeming to ignore James; and his lamb's head gushing sweet, red salsa; and the rifle he had in his hand. One of the substances they were eating looked foreign to him . . . . .
"Bahahahahaaa, what are you eating?" James pleaded to his family, referring to the reddish, rubbery-looking substance they all had on their plate. "Bahahahaa, what are you eating? It is hurting me. Please don't do that. What is it?" But his family ignored him, pretending he wasn't there, and as James watched Jennifer, his little four year old niece, put the rubbery-looking meat in her hand and begin playing with it, giggling as she did, James cried out, "Don't play with that, Jenny, you brat! What is it?" But Jennifer wouldn't listen as the others watched her and laughed until suddenly it dawned on James what it was. As Jennifer started to put the substance in her mouth, spicy red-hot salsa gushed from James' empty, lamb-head eyes as he screamed, "That's my heart! You are all eating my heart!" Then he shot Jennifer in the head. Her little pink, wet brains splattered against her mother's cheek and her skull, like a shattered crispy taco shell, flew across the room in a million tiny corn-chip-sized bits. Then he killed them all. And then himself. And finally the lambs quit baying in my ear so I could leave booth #13 and continue cleaning the rest of the video arcade.
Part 6: Sour Cream Ghosts Squirt Out Of Cock
I went to the other side, down the long dark hallway and then to the right, through the dimly-lit, open-spaced marquee area where the boxes from all the porno movies were on display, along with the channel number beside them. Naked girls were on the covers, smiling, but behind their eyes I saw darkness and floating jalapenos; and pools of greasy seasoned taco hamburger like feces; buckets of hot sauce that the sun shone upon their soft tortilla shell flesh bared for all to see. Dragging my mop bucket past booth #3, I saw that the television inside it was still on; the machine still had credits left on it. On the screen a big brute of a muscular white man had a poor naked woman bent over a sofa. Five or six big black guys, their long thick penises standing upright and erect like swords, stood around the white guy and cheered him on as he anally raped the girl.
A man was in the booth, sitting on the seat with his pants pulled down to his ankles. He had a ball cap on; fat, pudgy face; scruffy beard. He played with his penis with his tongue sticking out as he watched the horrible, perverted movie. I began seething inside, my werewolf spirit writhing in its smoldering, ever-evolving wrath, standing there in the booth's open doorway, looking at the guy who returned my glare, stared at me dumbly as he said, "What? You like to watch?" And then the filthy masturbator began to stroke his thingie even harder, knowing he had an audience, laughing as he did so. On the screen, the girl was now screaming. The white guy squirted rich white sour cream all over her bare bottom. Then thick white strands of semen dripped down her buttocks, drizzled down her legs, and then the black guys got in line to take their turn. It was just awful and I had to witness this sort of thing every day.
Another day. Another wretched masturbator. "Pull your pants up and get out of the booth!" I shouted at the man, who began to moan. He leaned back against the seat, tilted his head back and gripped his penis tightly. His eyes rolled back into his head as if he was possessed. His tongue hung out of his mouth and quivered; it shook; it danced as his legs wobbled and trembled and he shouted out, "Uhhhhhh. . . . UH!!!" he squealed like a roasted pig as I watched the vanilla apparitions, the semen ghosts, the holy wet and sticky white sour cream spirits fly out of the tip of the wretched worm's penis, splatter against the television screen. Drops also fell to the floor as Christ seemed to die somewhere near the pyramids in Mexico. He was on the cross near Cancun as the masturbator gave up his screaming sour cream spirit to God and the angels who all cried when they took them into arms. In a rage, I grabbed the guy's fat, pudgy sperm-coated hand and lifted him from the seat with his pants still down. I tossed him out into the hallway then walked a few feet away where I saw another nearby booth with the door open.
Part 7: "He Scares Me! He Scares Me Alot!"
Out of it crawled two more filthy, perverted animals, gay guys with mischievous, devious smiles upon their faces. They had just finished having sodomy, I figured. One of them was dressed in drag, had a horrible, frightening red-haired, curly wig on; mascara-caked face and dark eyeliner surrounding his glassy, blue eyes. He looked at me and laughed, cocked his head and pointed a finger to his own temple like it was a gun and said, "He scares me," referring to me. Then the two homosexuals laughed and began to walk away, leaving me to clean up their sex mess of sour cream and greasy taco meat. They walked a few feet, past the soda machine, when the drag queen turned around and looked at me again, messing with me; playing with me and teasing me. He put his finger to his temple like it was a gun again, cocked his head and made this affected look of surprise, said, "He scares me! He scares me a lot!" "Yeah, he scares me too," the other guy said. "That janitor is soooo creepy!" As they finally exited the arcade, I looked at their behinds and noticed they had tails. They all had the tails of rats.
The masturbator I had tossed out of the booth just lied on the dirty floor on his belly, his pants still down. His large, hair-covered butt faced me and it looked like the most despicable thing on earth. I lightly kicked him in the side and said, "Get up now and pull your pants up and get out of here. I'm tired of looking at you and I have to mop where you're lying." Slowly the masturbator got up, and then slowly I braced myself, took a deep breath and walked into the booth the two gay animals had just walked out of. He slipped and almost fell down on what must have been a puddle of sour cream. "Gosh dangit!" I shouted, then I nearly gagged at the smell all around me; the body odor; the sweaty smell of men having sex; the smell of men's hairs and rectal cavities; earthy dirt mooshed wet brown and stinking, like feces it lingered in the air for hours. There were used condoms on the floor full of runny, white sour cream. On the television screen men were having sex. One was putting his hard penis in the other's anus, ramming it in real hard while the other grunted. I was exhausted, depressed beyond belief as I stared at the movie a few seconds, shook my head in disgust.
Part 8: Grandma's Purple Panties In Porno Booth
In the corner I saw a pair of purple, silky women's panties and bra and it made me think of my grandmother, Eula, who died right before I left to join the Navy when I was 17 years old. I had had a hard time getting along with the kids at my high school, so my Senior year I moved in with my grandmother to live in a town 5 miles away so I could attend another school. We became very close that year and one night I accidentally walked into my grandmother's bedroom while she was getting dressed. She had purple panties on, I remembered, just like the ones in the booth, which covered her wrinkled, bare bottom. Her legs were covered in bruises and sores, scabs surrounded by and intertwined between bright blue veins that screamed through the surface of her dry, old skin and pulsated for Jesus. Grandma Eula looked at me, startled and topless; her wrinkled, raisin-like, small breasts looked like something that didn't belong on her chest. It was like someone had used some bathroom tissue paper; wiped it with feces; dipped it in red wine and then blood and then threw it at grandma's small, flat chest as the wet toilet paper splattered against her chest, stuck there, and became her boobs. She had a sad look in her eyes as if she were about to die and she did a couple months later.
"Taco, I'm sorry you have to see me naked like this," Grandma Eula said, flustered and embarrassed. "I don't exactly look as good as I did when I was twenty, that's for sure. But I am wearing the purple panties I had on that morning I was going to have you baptized when you were 5. Do you remember?" Of course I remembered. It was one of the most frightening days of my childhood.
There they were, sitting in the corner of booth #3, surrounded by crumbled up, semen-stained tissues and used condoms dripping sperm. I was gagging at the smell, and then it all started coming back to me, what I'd done the night before. It was just how my grandma had prophesied, when I had summoned her through a Ouija Board last night. I had always been against delving into the occult, but I figured you sometimes had to delve into the darkness to find the gold. The ministers on Trinity Television had warned against the use of a Ouija Board for guidance, but I was so desperate; I felt so hopeless and lost; so angry; my heart was so black and broken that I had no capacity to love; and I felt I had no choice but to summon a spirit for help. Last night I lit a few candles and sat down to ask the Ouija Board a question. Suddenly a cold draft entered the room even though all the windows in my apartment were shut. I became scared, tightly gripped the crucifix which dangled from my necklace as the picture of my dead grandmother, Eula, fell from the wall. The glass from the picture frame shattered into pieces as I looked in the mirror above my television set. It had something written on it in red, like, blood, and it said, "Taco, this is your Grandma Eula. I'm here to help you. You'll see my purple panties in the morning and you will know what to do."
I looked down at my grandma's purple panties in the booth corner and nearly wept . . . then I slowly began to slip off my jeans, stood there with the lower half of my body bare; in a tiny booth where two evil men had just finished sodomizing one another. There in between two puddles of semen; amidst piles of stinking used condoms, wet with shiny globs of sour cream not used to make beautiful babies but to crawl down dirty men's throats; inside their anuses; it streamed and splattered upon their faces and they did not scare me when they told me how spicy their hot sauce was. Those perverse men; those vile, filthy animals did not faze me now, in this holy hot place, as I picked up my grandma's panties, felt the salsa upon them which was still wet and oh, so red. Weeping, I slid the salsa-wet panties over my legs, gasped in near ecstasy as I felt them pull over my genitals, wrap snuggly and tightly against my buttocks as I then felt my grandma's spirit within me, the same one which had spoken to me the night before through the Ouija Board, filling my veins with sweet, icy solace, warm to the touch; it filled my mind with fond memories of me and my grandma sitting at her kitchen table talking to one another in the mornings before I went to school. She smoked her Kent cigarettes and she ate her cereal, such a thin woman; such a smoker's cough, and if I still had a heart I would realize that I now loved her more than ever.
I heard the masturbator still out in the hall making sounds. He was still lying there on the filthy floor, reveling in his own fluids and the stink of the others who walked by. I looked up to what now seemed like an unusually high booth ceiling, bent down upon my knees between the two blobs of sour cream . The booth smelled like mushrooms; semen always does when found in large quantities. I crawled around on the floor, picking up used condoms. I wiped them all over my face, all over my legs, wearing my grandma's salsa-soaked panties. Old hot sauce for a new day. The sins of our fathers the kids must wash away, for as sure as I had no heart, I began to put the condoms in my hair, letting them stick to my brown locks. They stuck around my head like a nimbus; like a halo; like a crown, such a sick, sublime thing. My grandma's spirit seemed to be biting my private areas. Like little mystical mosquitoes, I felt stings all over my penis and scrotum as I exited the booth, saw the masturbator still lying pants-less on the floor, face down. He was lifting his large, flabby hair-covered butt up and down, pretending to fornicate with the floor, making the most awful noises as he did so.
Part 9: "Possessed By Golden Love"
"It's time for you to leave the premises!" I yelled at him. I then grabbed him by the wrist and began to drag him down the hall, out of the video arcade and into the brightly lit store front. I dragged the near-naked, pathetic masturbator who just lied there on his back, fondling himself and giggling, past all of the XXX movie boxes; pictures of naked women smiling, covered in make-up and airbrushed to appear more beautiful than they are; past butt plugs and vibrators, dildos; blow-up dolls; pocket vaginas; fake flesh; condoms and lube and all sorts of things having to do with lust, not love. And then I approached the clerk, Scott, at the counter. Scott was looking at me with his small, sunken in eyes; they were snake-like and beady, pushed deep into his skull. Dark, foreboding shadows lied beneath them which looked like they came from the tears of frightened little boys and girls;like they'd pitter-pattered upon Scott's face and stained his cold, clammy skin with the sadness and fear of children. Scott had often tried to convince me to come over to his apartment to watch movies, but I was scared of what the movies might be about and of what might lie in the apartment of a man like this. At best, there would be dirty underwear lying around . . . at worst, maybe a couple severed fingers from the small hands of tortured little girls.
A man was standing in front of the gay magazine rack, thumbing through filthy pictures, eyeing the exposed genitals of the masturbator on the floor. I was grunting, sweating in my grandmother's purple panties; wet, semen-filled condoms adorned my head like a make-shift ring of white roses. The man began to smile at both me and the masturbator, started to unzip his trousers as I screamed at him, "Put it in your pants!" I was possessed by golden love in this dark, dreary place full of lust; I was a lamb without a heart, needing baptized from the dirt so badly, needing loved so badly; so deeply and desperately that the spirit of my grandma had entered me.
"Oh, c'mon, Taco, the guy was just pulling it out to have some fun," Scott said with a wry grin on his face. And it made me think of what a former co-worker, Dennis, had once told me about the time he went to Scott's apartment. He had gone to watch a couple football games with Scott because he didn't have his own television at the time. During commercials, Scott would sit there on his sofa, drunk on beer and misty-eyed, pushing a button on the remote that turned the VCR on. On the television screen would then appear a film Scott had made of a little girl, aged around 10, with blonde hair and brown eyes. Dennis wasn't certain where the girl was in the tape, but that it looked at least somewhat like Scott's bedroom. Scott's voice could be heard on the tape as he recorded it, talking to the little girl as she giggled and answered Scott's questions. It made Dennis uncomfortable but he stayed because he really wanted to watch the game and because he didn't have the money to buy his own beer.
After the first game was over, Scott had to go to work 2nd shift at the porn store, but he left Dennis to stay in his place to watch the game. Dennis said he had to change the channel for the other game, and no matter which button he pressed on the remote control, it kept turning on the VCR and showing the tape of Scott with the little girl on the screen. Scott had set it up to torture Dennis with it, try to make him feel some of the same sick feeling he felt for little girls. In the background you could hear Scott talking about dirty things, disgusting things; and snakes; about bushes with dry, gnarly twigs which grow thin, curly hairs from them, and all sorts of other sick euphemisms Scott was using to entice this little girl into letting herself be molested. I think Dennis said he even mentioned nachos and shrimp fajitas once.
Part 10: Used Condoms In My Hair
It all made Dennis sick and scared as he frantically pushed every button on the remote, trying to find the football game, but time after time he got the little girl on the tape. She was beginning to take her shirt off and that's when Dennis bent down on his knees. He put his hands on Scott's coffee table and began to pray to Jesus to let that tape go off the television screen, let all the creeping, crawling evil of Scott's sick spirit leave the room. And it never did;Dennis would leave the apartment screaming before it was all over with.
"I'm sick of all these guys and their fun, Scott," I said to this predator as I opened the porn store exit and tossed the still-giggling masturbator out into the parking lot. Scott just stood behind the counter looking at me arrogantly, in smug self-assurance, as if he was better than me. Scott always gave this impression that he knew more than most, that he knew of secret pleasures his co-workers didn't understand.
"You know, maybe if you masturbated more you wouldn't have so much hatred for the guys in the back," Scott said. "What are you saving your seed for? It isn't like you are going to find some girl with a hairy pussy to get pregnant while you're working here, doing this disgusting job. You may as well join them, Taco, and become a masturbator like the rest." Scott then smiled deviously, looked me up and down, amused by my appearance. Then with an affected look of puzzlement on his face he asked, "Do you realize you are wearing blood-soaked women's panties and have used condoms in your hair, Taco? Is that what happens to guys who never masturbate?"
No, it is what happens to guys who become possessed by golden love. I felt it in my veins but I didn't know what to do with it. It rumbled and roared in my chest, but since I had no heart it just made my ribs ache and my lungs were sore; all through my body I felt a cool, piercing sensation like I had just been injected with saline. I just looked at Gary in a trance and said, "Why should I masturbate when you are still going to molest little girls? It doesn't do any good to do what you say, Scott, it won't help the ones you hurt."
Part 11: Taco Without Shell In Dead Janitor's Closet
"True," Scott quietly responded in acknowledgement. Then suddenly Scott's forehead began to sprout two small grayish horns and a nimbus of white, dancing light, so beautiful, began to surround his head. I began to hear the baying of the sheep again. It was coming from the video arcade as I looked at Scott, this child-hurting devil, and said sleepily, "Scott, someone is calling me. I need to change my mop water before I mop out here in the front of the store. My mop bucket is in the arcade . . . I'll be back soon."
I began to walk toward the back of the store when Scott began chasing after me, screaming, "Stop! You can't go in there, Zack! Not without a heart!"
But I didn't listen and Scott had to run back to the counter to sell a nasty porn video to a disgusting, perverted customer. I walked into the video arcade, down the long dark hallway and saw my mop bucket sitting where I left it, just outside the booth I'd found my grandma's purple panties in. James, the lamb-headed ghost of the dead janitor was standing right next to it. He had a dirty, semen-stained T-shirt on and in his chest was a big, bloody gash. The gash surrounded a large, deep cavern and inside it I saw a beautiful taco; I saw the shining, greasy seasoned beef; the crisp, green lettuce; the ripe, red tomatoes were soaked in shimmering, sublime salsa and it, in turn, was blanketed in globs of upon globs of rich white sour cream; and it was covered in hair, gorgeous pussy hair; the pubes of all the angels had had their cunts shaved by devils and here it all was, forming a taco without a shell , symbolic of the werewolf spirit I had mistaken for that of my Grandma Eula. I had been duped by the Ouija Board and my life would be forever changed. I stood there looking at this mystical taco inside of James' chest and was drawn to it, like the lunar light inside of it was the moon possessing my body.
"Bahahahaaaa," James said as he held my mop in his hands, began rinsing it out in the plastic wringer. I swore I heard screaming coming from thick, grey semen and sin-filled salsa as it was squeezed from the dirty mop. "Bahahahaaha," James repeated, "someone left their heart in this salsa you've been using to mop the floor. "Do you think you could stick your head in there and bring it out? I can't mop with that heart in my mop water! Bahahahahaaa!"
Part 12: A Taco Werewolf Of The Lord
I approached the lamb-headed ghost and said, "I'll take that mop now. It's not your job anymore. It's mine." As I drew right next to James, I put my hands on the dead janitor's chest; felt the pussy hair and eased a couple fingers into the gaping, bloody cavernous hole of a gash, felt the wet tomatoes and greasy taco meat and rotten lettuce; emptiness and sour cream-stained sorrow from a life that had ended so badly, without a heart and without love--just a taco without a shell. Then as I began to take the mop from James I felt a magnetic pull toward the salsa inside the filthy mop bucket. The salsa was becoming thicker and greyer, swirling around on its own; tiny bubbles were erupting, breaking the salsa's surface as I felt my knees give way. I felt James' hands upon my shoulder, pushing me down toward the water I was evidently to be baptized in as a ritual for becoming a werewolf. "It's okay, Taco," I heard the voice of my grandma whisper into my ear. "You have on my purple panties so everything is going to be okay." All around me I heard the bolted locks of the masturbator booths being slid open. The masturbators were coming out of their booths, walking toward me like zombies, their penises erect as they stroked them with their filthy, grubby hands, their tongues sticking out. Then I heard another distinctive noise very loudly: ThUmP!! ThUmP!!
It was coming from inside the mop bucket, the sound of a heart beating;it was coming from inside my head, the sound of my hairy father's belt being brutally pounded against my grandmother's bleeding, purple-pantied bottom as James got down on the floor with me. On the semen-covered floor we both prayed. I felt James' wool-like, tortilla shell-covered cheek rub against the soft, slick flesh of my own face. I felt James' hot sauce-covered hands run along the length of my tingling spine as the baying of the sheep-- of the lambs, of the rams and goats--seemed to hover above me like a cloud of white light noise, and their song was one of golden love, of haunting, beautiful golden love like warm rays of the sun; its rays gathered around him like a halo; a nimbus; a holy emanation of lush, lascivious light as I could do nothing but scream into the empty void that was the hole in James' chest. The taco inside him was gone and was now inside of me. A flood of hot sauce began to gush from the wound, rich cherry black salsa and tasting like the temptation I had so far never given in to--the temptation to masturbate and be one of them, the filthy animals who gathered around me, playing with their penises and giggling. I had cleaned up their messes for years; like Christ, I had swept away their sins and now wore their used condoms in my hair as a werewolf of the Lord.
Part 13: Baptized In Salsa And Semen
"Bahahaaa," James said, "you must now be baptized in their transgressions, for it is there where you will finally find love in hairy tacos," and he then violently dunked my head into the filthy bucket full of salsa. Inside the salsa, I felt it all around me, the pain and the torture. The sour, creamy semen swam in the salsa; the dirt seeped through my nostrils and painted a portrait of dark danger I could never hope to vanquish but only transform, like matter, into an energy I could use for my own beatific benefit. I choked and gagged on the cunt hairs that were in the salsa, the pussy fur balls that were in my mouth, crawling down my throat as the water started to smell like a woman's pussy, so pungent yet so ripe with lunar life. James had me by the hair of my head. He lifted me up for air as I gasped; long thin pussy hairs were hanging from my mouth down to my chin, then he pushed me back down, dunking me dirty in the name of deliverance, this taco werewolf baptism I now wanted more than anything. ThUmP! ThUmP! I heard the heart in the bucket; I opened my mouth and held my breath underneath the water, searching for the heart with my teeth. My grandma's panties were alive; I was filled with her spirit; it tickled my behind; it danced along the contours of my wrinkled scrotum, along the length of my penis as I finally felt it--the tender, red, tough cardiac muscle of the heart which had been gone from my chest for so long. I gripped it tightly between my front teeth, felt the pressure upon the top of my head from James' pushing hands, not knowing if he meant to drown me in this sin-filled, semen-saturated salsa, or deliver me. Finally I overpowered James, the heart dangling from my mouth from a shred of red muscle I held tightly between my front teeth. I threw my head up, it broke the salsa's surface; then I threw it back and the heart slipped from my teeth's grasp and went flying into the air.
It landed with a splat a few feet away, near the wastebasket and underneath the video arcade marquee. Tiny, yellowish, dim light bulbs inside the glass display of filthy movies lit the red, thumping organ; they shone upon its aortas; its ventricles; its spout that had once led to my veins and pumped blood throughout my body before the demons dared to deny me. I felt no pain; it felt like a white river rapid was rushing from my body as the masturbators, on their hands and knees, began crawling toward the heart as it thumped and bounced on its own upon the floor. They approached it and began to gnaw on it. James began to cry out, "Bahahahahaaa! What are you eating?!"
POW! POW! I heard gun shots. I heard James' family screaming as that first shot gun shell went flying into James' sister's forehead at the dinner table. James put his arms around my shoulders. We both sat there and watched the masturbators devour the heart and with every bite they took out of it, I felt a sensation in my chest of being filled, like I was eating a hearty meal of tacos, like I was eating ten Fiesta Meals and 1,000 extra tacos all at once. I had a hairy taco inside my soul and no longer needed a heart. I began to cry in ecstasy, howling through the ceiling at the moon overhead while looking at this spectacle of mystical cannibal masturbators as they ate my heart and thinking of the day I had first come into the porn store at 5am to sweep condoms and mop up semen for the dead.
THE END
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