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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This time he was on a train; he had never actually been on a train, so it was completely imaginary. Everybody had their own booth and played video games, but the booths were picture-taking booths, so they would take quarters and feed the slots and snap shots would fly out the sides of them gleefully pounding buttons and devastating cartoon enemies. Outside, out through the windows, the countryside was nothing but gravestones. Millions of them, they were the horizon, they were the sky, they were the ground, the tombs. Somewhere in the distance, as if maybe it was the soundtrack to the complimentary train shoot’em up, was a silly hippy guitar solo, backed by silly hippy drums and psychedelic subtle flanges. As he stared, he tried to blink and catch the whirling tombstone’s engravings. He blinked, J, he blinked, O, he blinked again, B, and then all the words were clear. Job, rest in here, from then until now. Every single one of them said the same thing, and as they blurred past, the words began to take over. They became closer and more distinct even as the stones they were written on receded and became more blurred. The words were coming to the windows.
The clicks and whirs and god damn its and fucks and shits were slowly being invaded by the seemingly always present rumble of the wheels of the train. Whizzing past the windows now was an endless newspaper headline, inches from the glass. It all looked freshly printed, glistening black ink, wind smearing the letters into one-sided devil’s calligraphy. A woman in spiderman colors walked pompously down the aisle, and all middle class heads turned for a moment from their virtual reality in vague looks of envy. Envy of real reality, the real reality of physical beauty. The letters repeated endlessly, here lies Job, as if Job was not telling the truth, from then until now, rest in piles, rest in decay. No, the words were constantly changing now. The video game booths all froze in a unified tilt, causing all the passengers to scream in consumer like indignation and begin banging the sides of their booths. The pictures began to flow out of the sides in a vomit of thin colored paper. And as soon as Job thought that it might be so, it was so; all the pictures were of the same face, writhing in mock agony, laugh-screaming, eyes blazing in green-fired hatred. And offhand Job noticed that at the bottom of each picture was a trademark sign followed by the words, Bonjour Beefcake Inc. eatyourself@me. And then the photos stopped shooting, all lay on the ground of the cabin face down, and Job could not remember the face, what face, even if it had been familiar eluded him. Looking up, all the people were gone. Looking out, the train had stopped, or at least the newspaper words had, and all that remained was the static image of a newspaper page completely smeared with blurred ink.
The picture was there to, but it and its headline were both smudged beyond all recognition. All was still, except for the humming. And then fifty doors simultaneously opened along the sides of the car, and simultaneously fifty burly men slammed them back shut, and simultaneously slammed Job back into the world of the living. It was nearing dark, and men were leaving the plant to go to their warm illuminated homes.
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