You were one strange kid, Nacho (Part Two: The Land of Scum)
Long, long ago I got into the whole idea of writing experiments. Things like flash fiction, or a challenge where someone would throw out a name or a topic and I’d pound out 500 words, or “passaround” stream-of-consciousness writing where I’d write one sentence and then each of my pretentious proto-hipster friends would take turns writing the next sentences. An example of the latter I posted a while back — the “Passaround Porno.”
The Passaround Porno is actually the final act, in a way, of the “Land of Scum” collection — 36 pages worth of utter insanity. In late 1990, I got together with four friends in our high school library and we spent our lunch hours, for several days, creating The Land of Scum (AKA “John Sucks…What?”). I have no idea how to describe it beyond that, so I’ll just start posting it. The prologue and first chapter are below.)
(Special notes for the two people who follow me: The Land of Scum predates the adoption of the “Nacho Sasha” pseudonym. Before 1991, and the terrifying birth of Nacho, I was the much more respectable “A.D. Stevenson.”)
“The Land Of Scum File”
By Auntie Christ and AD Stevenson
WITH: A.K.A. 42; TOENAIL EARWAX O.B.E.; LOKI; GHANDI LOVE
-My investigation began with this crud-stained note left on my desk. The question was posed in poison-pen: “John Sucks….What?”
I wondered….brain felt soggy….took a trip to the junkie farm for a quick cocaine fix…….
As I stood up, I found that I was no longer in my office…I had been transported to a large room filled with replicas of…of…OF….OH MY GOD….IT’S JOHN… AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA …..!
-The replicas (50 at least) stood in shower-stall cubicles, slime crawling up walls possessing it’s own intelligence spelling out a word…What? ‘John’s are butt naked’? Very confused slime.
John says, “I wanna go to the powicemans bawl!”
Now, spell that properly! I scolded.
“Oh misery! What shall I ever do?” (sob)
“TOvuch…” John came at me–clutching his man…er… babliness.
His prick was translucent. It mouthed at me: “HEELP MEEEEEE!” I’M TRAPPED. POWICEMANS BAWLS!! TAKE ME BACK!!”
SUDDENLY, IT DETACHED ITSELF AND HOPPED DOWN TO THE FLOOR, PULLING ITS’ WRINKLY MASS OVER TO ME. IT SAID: “SO, WHAT DO YOU DO ON TUESDAY NIGHTS?”
I STEPPED ON IT AND GOT OFF ON THE SOFT POPPING SOUND IT MADE.
Its’ last words still echo in my head: “YOU MUST FIND WHAT JOHN SUCKS! THAT IS THE ONLY WAY YOU CAN BE SAVED FROM DEATH BY ORGASM!”
It had been quite some time since my last orgasm, so that sounded okay by me. I strapped myself into my La-Z boy electric chair and turned up the juice, my stale underpants peeling off. I spurted out my death, and moved on to a higher consciousness.
“La, la, la.”
I was singing.
I was dancing.
Who was I dancing with? A man. But WHO!?!?!?!?!?! OH MY GOD…Jerry Lee Lewis! But I’m only 13! Then I exploded in a wet orgasm and rolled in my bodily juices: “Hee, hee.”
My severe mental energy lighted Jerry’s hair. The elemental piles that lay there burst as my shaft burst with white globules.
I watched the milky lines of semen float through the hot tub, and John tried to…to…to suck on them!!! A-ha! So John was sucking on my semen!
At LAST! The answer. I had been mascerading as a dead man to attract John’s necrophilic tendencies. The babe gave me a big reward that day, I can tell you! Diane, I’m holding in my hand a box of little chocolate Elvis figurines…………………….
are you DEE-ranged?……signed: Slightly.
So, in hindsight, I think we were a bunch of faggots.
Moving on to Chapter One:
Chapter One: Many Years After the Prologue
It was a dark day in the middle of a cold August afternoon. Seeking adventure, I poured a dozen ice cubes into my moldy jockstrap. Noxious gasses rose up into my already pissed about life nostrils. The same nostrils that had been with me through grade school, when I was young…long ago. I looked up at the sky, and saw a plane fly by and drop a pamphlet or something right down in front of me. I don’t know how it did that, but it did. What did it say? You ask, testicle man, well:
“YES! YOU TOO CAN GROW SCROTUMS IN THE PLEASURE OF YOUR OWN BACKYARD!”
As it turned out though, the headline was only to catch my attention. In actuality, the pamphlet was an anarcho-communistic detonation device. A soft ticking sound drifted past and I thought that I saw my mother. someone was trying to kill me. This much was obvious. I threw the pamphlet away, and ran back for my house to sodomize myself before it exploded.
My house was built during the 1950’s, entirely out of rubber and gelatin. They thought it was the wave of the future, especially in San Francisco, but it never caught on Here. as I entered the bedroom, the silhouette of a gorgeous woman was waiting under the window. I reached for my nine volt battery, and then noticed that this heavenly creature had no limbs.
Obviously a type-o. I closed my eyes, and opened them again to see that she had become a man. The She-man spoke to me.
“Hello hero.” it said in a beautifully erotic, deep, flu-type voice.
“Hewo.” I replied, speaking perfect John.
“Come over here and count my nipples big man.”
This was something that I couldn’t resist, but then I saw the gun and the copy of the Manchurian Candidate in her nonexistent hands. I briefly consulted the creature that I believe lives in my chest, and he whispered: “Kill kill kill kill kill killkill killkillkilll….etc.” So… I reached for the Howser I keep under my bed (‘my god, you’re a doctor and your so young, nice hair Dooooogeeeeee). No, sorry. That’s Howitzer. I pulled the trigger, getting immense sexual pleasure from the fine spray of bodily fluids that caught me across the face. Slivers of bone on my pillow. I reached for some hand lotion as I heard the helicopters overhead.
So there I stood, hand lotion in one hand, and Dr. Howitzer in the other. God, he’s cute. Suddenly, all continuity was lostabijweijjjsj ww losty capitols….capitals….capitoals….
You will notice the expertly positioned Freudian slip above: ‘a country with no capitols-capitals.’ The authors, despite their deranged behaviour on the New York art scene (Strange stories come our way about butcher knives) seem to have a full grasp of the psychological implications of Proust and his nuts. That is, er, teticals.
Okay, so, testicles. Those things you feel at night and forget commas because they are no longer needed. I was at the area between her thigh and her labia. Rubbing things obscenely. Silk. SILKETH.
So then, I moved to the left, in that area that had absolutely no continuity, and continued=djjsj copenhaga=\\ continued my adventure elsewhere where I made no mistakekes on the keyboard. The land where testicles type, and scrotum is sucked. Dance! Dance! Liberace. Suck! Suck! Suck don’t chew, rather. What is happening, oh good, it’s unbuttoned today–I’m glad you did that. I’m cool, wherere e a am ama I a,a,a Help.
Ah, much better. Take it away John, the orchestra leader.
“I’d like to do a little number for you this evening.” he said, adjusting his blue fur coat and candelabra, “Now if you will please bend over.” The audience bends over, gasping slightly in the breeze from their programs, now dropped to the floor. Strange, though. They’re not quite programs, more sort of….
“YES! YOU TOO CAN GROW SCROTUMS–” AAAAAAAAAA!!!!!
I HAVE THE STRANGEST FEEli oops feeling of de too bee contynuerd that is. to be continued
to be continued, jack