Men spoke to him. About other men. They cursed a lot and all that he could see was their mouths moving. Thin masculine lips each trying to improve upon the size of its naturally allocated cock. Tales of adventure and conquering. Then he felt their cocks rubbing up against him, searching out his mouth and his anus. They wanted any way in. Some way in. So that that they could come back out again, and then come back in. Over and over again, to come back in. It would always be that in push that was important. They wanted in, as if to maybe leave something there. They reeked of musk; the musk took on colors, shapes, and brand logos. Chanting cocks spurting out tall tales of conquering searched and groped all over his body searching for ins with company art plastered all over them. P&G banged at his right temple, Nike patted at his left thigh, Nintendo squiggled around his right hand, Nabisco dances along his chest, and so on. Maybe Microsoft traced along his left eyebrow gently at the pace of an all determined snail with Napoleonic tendencies. His arms and legs flailed around him, beating them off while he could. But he knew he couldn’t hold them off for long. They were persistent blood filled hardness, and would not be denied. All the corporate cocks began to twirl into drilling trademarks of every shape, size, and nationality.
There was no stopping their entrance any longer. In they came, of course in his eyes, of course in his ears, of course in his feet, of course in his nose, of course they slipped in under his fingernails, of course they rammed in through his nipples, pop, pop. They were nothing but large one eyed bulging dripping slogans now, ‘We bring good things to life,’ and ‘Just do it,’ and ‘Just for the taste of it’ gang-banged him ruthlessly and heartlessly. His inner soul was being blackened by the most insane rape. And then from deep within him, from under the oldest scars, Job’s muscled and beating heart of absurdity welled up into an indomitable and utter guttural laugh. Nothing funnier in his entire life. Job woke up laughing tears, all the slogans had taken on the face of Richard Nixon whose nose hobbled and bobbled up and down and as the nose melted so did the straightening strength of the words, until they were just limp wet newspaper headlines and scrawled yellow memo pad sheets. And then he heard the echo of his laughter and he shut the fuck up.
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