TQTKM

This category, AICMF, was originally constructed out of the initialism of the Romanian phrase "Aceste intrebari care ma framinta", which is to say "These questions that kneadi me". I didn't bother to switch it to TQTKM when I started writing English Trilema because lazy, and it didn't go away because looky -- one can never be free of qneading kuestionsii.

So, imagine for the sake of argument that everything's a sleeping Cthulhu. You know how the entire modern and postmodern English cultural tradition, from Tolkien to Orwell and everything in between consists of naught besides one loud, ample and unyielding lament as to the prosaicity of the world ? Insufficient magic everywhere, where's the enchantment gone, what have you.

Ok then, suppose the opposite was true. Suppose every rock, any stray paperclip, each overflying crow had the potential to take offense at any act or omission of yours and suddenly, irretrievably react in mind-bending ways. Such as for instance, turning everything inside-out. You don't know what that would even mean ? What difference does this make! Cthulhu knows what it means.

So, if this is how the world went... how do you expect it'd look ?

But anyway, that wasn't the question that was kneading me. There's a different one.

Let's now cut to the story of the likeable auctorial character's life, like the retard prostitextutes of the pantsuit press do. So, there I was walking down the street one fine morning, when suddenly I stopped mid sentence. Because...

Yes, that's right.

So the question that kneads, me and soon you, is... what if the ants did that ?

I proposed this to my companion, "maybe they had enough of people ruining their house so they decided to put a face on it, maybe we stop". To which she offered that wouldn't you expect other things to impress the ants about people ? Maybe I dunno, the widely mobile phalanges we call arms ?

But what, I retorted, if they already tried this ? They made something in that vein, didn't work out, now trying something else ?

What if they reviewed their well kept ant archives and concluded on the basis of all human corpses they ate to date that the face is the least damaged portion and consequently the most likely to be relevant for their purpose ?

Yes, I know, it's just some shape a kid drew with a pointed stick.

But what if ?

———Romanian superlative activity of a question is to "knead" one, what can I tell you. [↩]For my own peace of mind : do you pronounce "kneading questions" differently from "qneading kuestions" ? [↩]

« When did America end ?

Integration is bad for Bitcoin. »

Category: AICMF

Friday, 01 December, Year 9 d.Tr.

MP's fabulous hash function, and its family

This proposal stems from a recent discussion in the forum of The Most Serene Republic, and consists of a readaptation of an older idea of Stan's to the task at handi.

The item here contemplated is then an algorithmic, rather than algebraic, hash function. It consists of three elements and four operations, which we proceed to define :

Elements of the fabulous hash function :

One element is the message to be hashed, M, which is a field of bits of unspecified length.

Another element is the so called state machine, S, which starts as one null bit and grows to an unspecified length.

The last element is the result of the hashing, R, which is a field of bits of user-specified length.

Operations of the fabulous hash function :

One operation is the bit flip, let it be called flip. This operation consists of toggling one specified bit of either S or R.

Another operation is the inversion, let it be called invert. This operation consists of toggling all the bits of either S or R.

A third operation is the flipping of a number of bits in either S or R, let it be called the screw. This operation consists of taking the bit count of either S or R, iterating over that value, at each step multiplying the iterator with the current position in M, calculating the remainder of that product against the bit count of R or S respectively, and flipping the remainder-th bit in R or S respectively. A half-screw will take half (floor) the bit count of S or R instead.

The fourth operation is a shift of the state machine, call it expand. This operation consists of adding one null bit at the end of S.

The last operation is a position rewind, call it a rewind. This operation consists of decreasing our position in the message M by one, except in the case our position is already 0.

On this basis we can now proceed to define our function :

I. The function starts by allocating memory : one bit for S, and the size specified by the user for R. All allocated bits are zero.

II. The function starts at position 0 in M and iterates over each bit in M. These iterations are called steps. During each step, the function considers whether the position-th bit in M is 0 or 1, and executes a defined set of operations in either case. Once the operations have been executed, the position is incremented by one. Once the position is larger than the size of M, the function returns R as the hashed value of M.

So far we have defined a whole class of hash functions : the Fabulous Hash Function family. Numerous kinds and types could be devised on the basis described, and any willing operator of a numeric machine is certainly encouraged to do so for his own needs and uses.

Let us now consider the canonical example of a FHF : MP's own FHF. It goes like so :

if the bit in M is 0, expand and screw S in R. If the bit in R found at the position equal to the remainder of the division of our position in M by the size of R is 0

That bit in R is flipped and we rewind.

else, that bit in R is flipped and S is inverted.

if the bit in M is 1, half-screw S in R. If the bit in R found at the position equal to the remainder of the division of our position in M by the size of R is equal to the bit in S found at the position equal to the remainder of the division of our position in M by the size of S

We expand and then screw R in S.

else, that bit in R is flipped.

There are a number of important properties to be underlined.

The very last bit of M can produce significant change in R, potentially touching all its bits.

The fabulous hash-function is message-size indifferent, being operable of messages of any size within the limitations of the hardware only.

The fabulous hash-function outputs hashes of any arbitrary length equally well.

It is not possible to say, on the basis of a hash, how much memory, or how much CPU was consumed to process the message.

The cheapest way to calculate how much memory, or how much CPU will be needed to process a message is to process the message.

Because the fabulous hash function does not use blocks, it does not require any kind of padding.

Diligent work by ben_vulpes and sina allows us no less than three canonical implementations to choose from : lisp, go, python.

———Which is, exactly as he states it, to resolve the major weakness that the hash function can be written as an equation.

The fundamental, intrinsic and so far nor escaped weakness of all currently known hash functions is that a system of equations equal to the count of their possible outputs could be written ; and resolved. No, the usual obscurantism passing for "analysis" in the field does not resolve this problem anymore than sprinkling some truly strong holy water cures lesbianism. [↩]

« MiniGame (S.MG), December 2016 Statement

Making the pussygrab great again ? »

Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Thursday, 05 January, Year 9 d.Tr.

Totally not flooding, sir

If you'd like to see what not-flooding looks like in the new and precipitatiously improved Costa Rica, here's a coupla candids :

You understand, the flooding was, it's not ongoing, it was just an isolated meteorological event and that's all.

That I have families of ducks swimming upriver down the road and salmon jumping gleefully among the bushes is a whole different kettle of lulz altogether! After all... that's what roads are for! And besides, they dig those foot deep trenches on the sides of the road for a reason.

The life, and times.

« Why did the chicken cross the road ?

Suddenly, Last Summer »

Category: Zsilnic

Tuesday, 10 October, Year 9 d.Tr.

TMSR-RSA spec, extremely early draft

I. As far as extant literature is concerned, Werner Koch is a malevolent imbecile whose shameless parents should nevertheless fucking apologize. Everyone elsei "involved" in "crypto" to date is not far behind, from Zimmermanii onwards.

II. The RSA key shall be a 4096 bitiii entity produced out of two 2048 bit primesiv. The key will be stored as a N, e, C structure, where N is the public modulus, e the chosen exponent, and C a comment field of unspecified length. Key fingerprints will be calculated over this structure through a yet-to-be-specified hash function.v

III. The RSA exponent will be a 4096 bit integer at the option of the user. In principle the user can input any 4096 bit prime, but one of two types are recommended : either the FULL stylevi or else the RNG stylevii.

IV. RSA padding will be provided through Keccak-OAEPviii. Messages longer than 2048 bits will be packeted into 2048 bit chunks. There will be no symmetrical cyphers involved at any point. Signatures will be based on the same padding.

IV. RSA implementation will work in constant time and constant space ; the canonical implementation will be written in Ada. Work is ongoing towards a FFA-based approach.

V. Alternative ciphers. Cramer-Shoup.

———See the logs re useless antecessors, I won't rehash here. Not so much as a fucking constant - time exp they produced, these useless fucktards that aren't anything else. [↩]Years prior to the reveal, "Zimmerman" responded to an email encrypted to his key by stating (in plain text) that he "decades ago" lost the corresponding key. 'Nuff said. [↩]For about a year I strongly supported eccentric length key. I gave up on the idea recently, because the arguments against as presented satisfied me -- and when reason speaks emotion'd better shut the fuck up.

The user will not get any say in the matter. 2048 keys are too short. 8192 keys are too long. Keys of a length that's not a power of two are no good. RSA keys are 4096 bits and that's the end of the story. [↩]Primality testing, as well as everything else, will be implemented correctly, as opposed to imperialy. This point fractally and endlessly repeats itself throughout, because everything the pantsuits to is retarded on all levels, recursively. Nevertheless, it won't be repeated here. [↩]The requirements for this role are a) no blocks and b) unlimited size input. The current candidates for this role are either keccak or mpfhf. [↩]Something like say 1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111000101, or more generally speaking 264 - 59, 83, 95, 179, 189, 257, 279, 323, 353, 363 etc [↩]1100111110111010111111000100100010011101001010001000100100011001 , or generally speaking anything with ~half the bits set (that's also a prime number, obviously).

As Stan aptly puts it,

No moar 'we heathens have faster RSA because mother dropped us as babies and our RSAtron does different work on different hamming weights'

Word. [↩]To pad : 1. Produce M00 by adding 0s on the right of message M until M00 reaches 2048 bits in lenght ; 2. Generate R, 2048 bits of entropy ; 3. Calculate X = M00 xor hash(R) ; 4. Calculate Y = R xor hash(X). The padded message M is X + Y.

To de-pad : 1. Calculate R as Y xor hash(X) ; 2. Calculate M00 as X xor hash(R) ; 3. Remove 0padding.

The hash function is yet to be specified. It should be a non-block 2048 to 2048 bit hash function (conceivably, can also use two). [↩]

« Where THE FUCK!!! is everyone ?

The Taking of Pelham 123 x2 »

Category: Bitcoin

Wednesday, 16 August, Year 9 d.Tr.

Tings with a tang.

They have the month of workers here, nothwithstanding nobody works ; and the month of the mother and of the children and all the rest. And the month of the amigo, although it is my considered opinion they are bereft of internal life sufficient to actually have a friend.i There's also the mes de la dulzura, which seems to have come about six or seven times in three years, making the purpose of the whole bullshit quite transparent.

Not nearly as transparent, however, as the Month of the Chair. Fancy that wonder. They hopefully sit on poles the rest of the year.

Postcards from Nutland

You, who don't live in Nutland, have no fucking idea what it's like. Allow me to try and give you an idea.

Why did they put the cars inside the house ? Yes. What do you mean why, for the same reason they do all the psychotic nonsense they do. They probably saw something in a magazine from Miami and misunderstood what's going on. Sometime in 1972. And they've been doing this ever since, stuffing CARS in narrow urban shop windows.

That little table there ? The one forced into a tiny space in a corner, under the relentless onslaught of housecars ? That's what's left of sanity in Argentina. It's... well for one thing it's not doing too well, and for the other it's entirely made in China, as you can see.

Enuff said.

This is Argentina, you realise, a picture worth forty million people.

———Can a cow have a friend in another cow ? Are the teenaged classmates united by whatever circumstance friends for the brief interval until graduation ? If you sit before the same TV watching the same tired old teams do the same tired old passes on the same soccer fields are you friends thereby ? If you sit on the same seats in the same box on wheels for years, every morning and every evening, friends therefore ? [↩]

« No Such lAbs (S.NSA), February 2017 Statement

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Category: La pas prin lume

Wednesday, 08 March, Year 9 d.Tr.

This blog is now about Bticino, and other coinsiderations

Consensus fork improvement community development MIT I-can't-believe-it's-not-Bitcoin progress etcetera. Also Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo.

Coming soon to a tripod website visitor counter near you!

Sun rising on the road to San Isidro de El General, a small town that correctly advertises itself "of beautiful women" lost among the unimproved lands the ticos call "Parque Nacional". It's not very far from San Jose, but the road is miserable (single lane, broken up asphalt in many places, the usual terrible driversi that are the locals etc).

The Parque Nacional itself is spectacular, however.

Unidentified castle-like structure.

The Gayetti, locally famous debauchers of mani gomitas.

Better dress from Samer's and be the same as everyone else than dress from Lamer's and...

And now we get to the real truth of the reasons behind my visit : someone in San Isidro had left me an important message. In chalk.

This is now travelogue-noir, bitch!

Ever since I can remember I always wanted to hit up on random women in the street. Today I did! Like pretty much every other day, but we digress. Upon spotting this office-geared blondy slut I inquired if she's from there, and then asked her where's the best restaurant in town ? She offered to walk together (which is uncharacteristic for the inimaginably shy locals), and on the way very shyly and quietly and self-effacingly admitted to speaking "some" English (her English was fine) but lacking practice. Then proceeded to turn down my offer to practice her English over lunch (she has paperwork she must drop off) and failed to avail herself of the open ended invitation "well, we'll be here a while, drop by after, have coffee".

In any case, above depicted : sopa azteca, something called in Romanian "snitel in ceapa"ii and something called in Spanish "casado"iii alongside... a hat. For the sorts of people who eat hats.

This settled, let's proceed to the local church :

At this juncture I must confess that from an artistic perspective the Cathedraliv of San Isidrov contains possibly the best production in modernized xtian artefacture I've yet seen. But from a theological and for that matter religious perspective... holy hell! A smiling Jesus ? What the fuck is this even supposed to be, "Oh I died for everyone's seens and it was painful and shit tee hee" ? Just how far is the New York & friendsvi "reformation" of the cadet branch of Hebrew theology going to go ? A smiling God, the Father ? Really ? What the fuck just happened here, how long have I been asleep!

Come to think about it... are they doing it ? Is this the new, gay-friendly Catholic church, then ?

But anyway, the whole aedifice is (as the devilry in charge readily confesses), merely a work in progress :

They're not quite done yet covering up the cheap brickwork, doing away with the warehouse-style corrugated metal roofing and so on. But in time, yes ? Not even Smiley-the-god managed to build a whole alt-world in a single week!

And in the same vein of reformed alt-xtianity,

What bridal faire of ye olden days, where the bipedal cowsies were lined up by production years to display for the gentlemen of means in attendance whatever tricks they learned at ye olde finishing school, drop-roll-and-play-dead.

No more! Out with the old, in with the democracy. They're now going to "meet together" Levinas-stylevii. Because this is now possible, and with no prerequisites whatsoever. What! What are you laughing at! She will moo, he will show her his tweets about how mean and undemocratic and racist, cowsynist etcetera MP's posts on Trilema are ; and on that basis they'll together set the cornerstone of a perfect breakfast of a relationship -- one not to be disciplined by anyone but the Great Inca smiling above, composed of a stupid sheep and a dumber goat with all the strength and future power projection of fresh mozarella. Such an animal farm of a future as to make baby kitten angels cry, I tell you.

The one thing pretty much all the small towns of Costa Rica have in common is San Francisco on one of its better days.

And now let's move into the "natural disasters" part of the show. This country saw severe flooding ("tropical storm" Nate, Oct 5th), which left the government on its kneesviii and the ground well heavy with water ; only to be followed by a 6.8 earthquake centered on Jaco (the evident epicenter of the tourist trade here) a month later. The damage is extensive, let's peruse some details :

That pile of beams and railings used to be a bridge deck.

The current replacement (pro tempore, as traffic must resume and must carry on). The concrete walls protecting the piers were also severely damaged, principally because when in flood mode the rivers here can and do carry boulders the size of a truck, on occasion, and multi-pounder lesser shot by the hundreds/minute.

Dredging the river bed.

Mountain side, excavated for stability.

But what disturbance yonder keeps traffic at a standstill ?

Yes, that double yellow line was the middle of the road, at some point. The going lane completely collapsed into the precipice below, and the coming lane was rendered too delicate to step on by the cave-in.

Yes, that in the mud there, down in the hole is someone's ex-roof. But let's move on to happier fare lest we depress ourselves and in becoming melancholy turn towards the similing butt-gods of the new state religion.

This is a place under a very cozy fuckbridgeix where a river flows into the ocean.

You know, just like your hopes, and your dreams and aspirations, with every passing year, into the sea of sadness.

Quick, quick, look the other way!

Speaking of nothing in particular, can you believe how meaty black girl butt gets ?

Incidentallyx the monkeys at Manuel Antonio come in two varietals : the black backed, that tend to spend most of their time mutually grooming, and the lighter, yellow-ish backed, that tend to try and socialize with you (as best they can).

And with that, the Sun sets on the Pacific.

And lest you think we've all forgotten about biodiversidad,

To close on a happy, humane note : I had a great weekend (starting sometime earlier this week), as I no doubt will continue to (going to check out the lesbian watering hole later on today etc) as I've had every week for many many months and as I no doubt augur upon you too, my very dear reader!

———Let's briefly condense this matter :

Most local drivers either do not signal on turning or signal as an afterthought, long after they began executing the maneuver whose intention they're signaling. This can be deeply counterproductive, but it is very much in line with the locals' mental issues : when not completely absent, road signals are confirmatory rather than premonitory. This means looking for a sign such as "Fuckville, go left" is a waste of your time : the sign will be present, if at all, at the spot where having taken the correct direction to Fuckwille will have taken you, which is to say down the actual road to Fuckville, far enough to not be visible from the intersection. The sign is there to confirm you went the way you intended and not to help you decide which way to go to arrive where you intend to arrive.

Virtually no local drivers have any conception of the vehicle they are running in any Western, mechanical sense. To the Costa Rican, a car is merely a concept, a notion, a conceit, exactly the same as "divine grace" or Mary's virginity : not to be tested, and not to be reasoned about in any way. Consequently, they all buy Toyotas, notwithstanding the underpowered, cruddy engines and altogether doubtful cars made by little yellow men for use on the plains are deeheheheeeply inadequate in this mountainous country that deems 20% grades on the road as hardly worth the mention. Also consequently, they never ever do any maintenance work whatsoever until the item actually breaks down on them -- and even then, only the absolute bare minimum necessary to get the item going again, for now. As a result we see at least -- as a conservative, minimalist estimate -- three dozen broken down vehicles on the side of the road per tank fill-up (as per my orders, girls fill the tank once it's 1/4 full). As another result you will see at least one vehicle without any lights, leaving aside all the suicidal bikers and walkers on the sides of the highway.

Ticos have a healthy conception of their own mortality (a reasonable outlook given the driving environment), and consequently are always going to slow down to rubber neck whenever there's a traffic accident of any kind. I doubt you can imagine this on your own, but try : a whole highway doing 30 an hour because on the other side, past the concrete separator but within sight, there's a crash and police and paramedics and etc. You can honk all you want, they won't go any faster, must drink in the fascination! Also consequently they also tend to let everyone pass, all the time -- which can be counterproductive especially when any kind of lane merging is involved.

As you can imagine, driving here can be testing. And, inexplicably, they all manage to somehow pay for gas, notwithstanding a full tank is about a week's pay. During the agreed-upon traffic jam hours, the traffic jams are literally and without exageration worse than anything LA ever sees.

[↩]Profoundly Viennese dish, thin strips of beef as would be breaded by the Bayern are instead steamed (not fried) with abundant onions. [↩]The standard meal a married workman would expect from his wife in his lunchbox, rice, black beans, fried maduro (plantain), tortilla and a meat, usually chicken. [↩]Yes, cathedral no less! The incumbent is Mons. Gabriel Enrique Montero Umana, born 1945, master's in "Franciscan Studies" in New York. [↩]A sleepy little 40k inhabitant town with no industrial or commercial importance to speak of and entirely obscure under any possible criteria you might employ, from sports to cultural productions etcetera. [↩]Take the current pope, about as related to Catholicism as Carly Fiorina had to do with capitalism, or the Clinton clan with politics (in the only possible sense of this term -- which is to say the organised repression by white men of everyone else). [↩]Are you familiar with that steaming pile of idiocy, by the way ? [↩]"We need about half a billion dollars to fix the infrastructure damage ; at the present time this money doesn't exist" is more or less an exact quote. [↩]By Playa Dominical.

A fuckbridge, if you need to ask, is a bridge where you take well trained sluts to act the desperate streetwalker, and be fucked barefoot in the mud, leaning against bare concrete.

It's a formative experience of the industrial world, what can I tell you. Rather than tell you, let me ask you instead : why do you aim to insulate your women from experience ? How are they going to be the more useful to you the less they know, are you insane ? [↩]No racism, misogyny, aryanism, white-superioritism or other sensitive political positions were intimated or are contemplated by this purely fortuitous joining of random vacation snaps. You, who can evidently believe anything, can also believe this. Amirite ? [↩]

« Mimi metallurgico ferito nell'onore

Biodiversidad y technodiversidad. No mom. »

Category: La pas prin lume

Saturday, 18 November, Year 9 d.Tr.

Things That Happened To Sam. Chapter 8 - Sam finally gathered

Sam finally gathered enough energy to raise his head. He carefully lowered the man's sleeping snake from his mouth, he looked around briefly then, as struck by having forgotten something, turned his head and gave it a sweet kiss right on the exposed head.

Pam supported him as he struggled to get to his feet. "You must apologize to our gracious hosts, baby" she said, loudly. Rodriguez came in from the kitchen, holding a hot pan which smelled delicious. His brother opened his eyes.

"Yes..." Sam babbled, before finding himself. "Please forgive me, sir! I am very sorry, sir! Please, sir!" he said, leaping widly from one man to the other, kneeling before them, rubbing his head on their shins and trying to kiss their feet.

The scene went on for a few minutes, as the frying pan slowly cooled, and Rodriguez' smug satisfaction contaminated his brother's face. "What are you sorry for, little bitch ?" Rodriquez asked at length. The question had on Sam the effect of an electric shock. "I... I don't... I don't know, sir. Please forgive me, sir."

"Alright", he offered neutrally. "Both of you little whores - go outside and wash up." It was at this moment that Sam noticed Pam was completely nude, and it struck him as the most obviously natural thing in the world. He undid his remaining button and threw his thoroughly soaked and stained shirt away. As he limped behind her towards the patio, he heard Rodriquez say "And shave. Everywhere. Both of you." behind them. He mumbled "yes sir!" under his breath and hurried to catch up.

The place Rodriquez had sent them was an open air shower, running cold water through a flexible hose. The privacy panels had been recently removed, not that either Sam or Pam had any way to know, or frankly speaking seemed much inclined to care. You could plainly see the backstreet, and the backstreet could plainly see you. There wasn't anyone there, except the occasional car passing by. They usually horned, but no more than that. The sun was about to set, leaving maybe an hour of light, maybe two. Sam briefly considered that they wouldn't be going to St. Thomas the next morning, seeing how it was already late afternoon, but the thought made no more impression than any momentary flight of fancy ever does.

Getting all the crusted spunk and blood off of him took forever, but his wife helped him delicately, with soft, loving hands. Shaving was much easier an affair, Pam didn't have any hair anyway and Rodriguez had left within reach a sharp straight razor which made very quick work of Sam's everything, face, armpits, pubic hair, legs, everything. Almost an hour later they finally emerged. Rodriguez was waiting for them on a disused, disfunctional sort of ex-swing, propped up by indistinct detritus on the side missing the rope. He explained that his brother had left "to make arrangements" while he set two bowls, perhaps more reminiscent of dog dishes, on the porch at his feet. He threw some stale bread chunks in each, perhaps dinnertable left overs, then went inside. He soon emerged with a bowl of indistinct slop, which he poured into the bowls, atop the bread. There were no spoons, but this proved no impediment to either Sam or Pam -- the bowls were licked clean within minutes. They had apparently been hungry.

Next he emerged with two plain cotton dresses which he handed to them. Pam picked one, and put it on. It was practically see through, the sway of her breasts made visible by the thin material. She helped the other one over Sam's head. He looked ridiculous in the thing, but as there were no mirrors and nobody said anything he himself had no idea. Then again, had there been mirrors, or had anyone said anything, what idea would he have had ?

They followed him quietly down a winding path towards what, in the distance, seemed like a makeshift dock. The walk was maybe a mile, maybe more. At first Sam's ass hurt and he couldn't walk properly, but after a couple stern looks from Rodriguez he caught right up and kept moving. Soon Sam noticed that whenever they crossed anyone Pam would lift her skirt as far high as it went, completely exposing herself. Most people just looked away, though some made some joking comment or discussed briefly with Rodriguez in hushed tones but next time someone passed, Sam lifted his skirt also, along with her. Sam didn't know why, specifically, nor did he think about the why. Maybe it would make Rodriguez be pleased with him! The mere thought of that possibility filled him with a warm, sweet, sticky joy, like he were a savarine.

After the fifth or so encounter, Rodriguez spat out a string of Spanish curses, with a little English intermingled here and there, enough to convey the broad point that he, Rodriguez, was none too impressed with their, the villagers expectation that they could fuck Pam for free merely because they did fuck her for free at some point in the more or less recent past. It sounds perfectly absurd once spelled out plainly, and yet is there a more commonly held, or more reliably encountered delusion ?

"Maybe you shouldn't ask for money", suggested Pam, evenly.

"What ?" Rodriguez spat out.

"No money. Cigarettes, whatever they had."

Rodriguez looked at her, silently at first, but as his pockets filled up with sweets, tobacco and assorted other odds and ends of certain if inconsequential value he smiled at her.

"You really know your work." he said. "Good whore." he added, in a warm, intimate tone. Pam purred slightly, and Sam's admiration for his wife swelled up inside his chest and nearly drowned him. Pam! She is so beautiful! She is so perfect in every way! And Rodriguez likes her! What's more, he said she's a good whore! He grabbed her hand, teary eyed, and pressed it to his side. His wife, Pam, that's who Rodriguez was talking about. Sam felt as proud and exhilirated as any small child could ever be at the coronation of his mother. Queen Pam, the good whore. What could ever be more grandiose, what ever was more, or better, throughout the ages ?

With all the stopping for Pam to take cock, either to be fucked standing like the beasts of the field, on the side of the road, or to blow a coupla loads here and there, it was well night before they reached the dock. The men that now and again stopped them to offer Pam their surfeit of fructose in a light protein sauce never did show Sam any favour whatsoever. He couldn't blame them, in his heart, but a small seed of envy nevertheless caught root, and its bitter vines slowly spread throughout. A few times he tried to nuzzle his way into the action while Pam was sucking off some cock or other. She seemed very willing to share, but the men always chased him away. They never wanted Sam's lips on their cock. They only wanted Pam's mouth, they only wanted her ass, her lips, her tits, her... The observation incresed his admiration for her, but also saddened him. Poor Sam, he had been turned out to a life that, in the end, had no interest in him, no need for him, properly speaking no room for him whatsoever. He was an extra, there because he was there and for no other reason. Had he not been there it'd have made no difference.

Maybe if he had a pussy like her, Sam thought. Maybe if he had tits. Maybe... but despondency quickly caught up with the stray thought and murdered it where it stood. who was he fooling, really ? Nobody would ever want him. Maybe if they were drunk, maybe if he were a virgin, for the thrill of discovery, for the breaking of new ground, the furrowing of fresh new mud. Maybe once in his whole life, if he got lucky. No more. He was an old, shriveling, repugnant fat faggot nobody wanted and that was all there was to it.

The dark tar of the water, caught between the sandy shore and the rotting pile of flotsam masquerading as a dock mirrored his thoughts, echoing them back to him. Sam spent a long while feeling sorry for himself, not even bothering to lift his skirt anymore when the occasional man straggled over to copulate with Pam in the romantic setting. They wouldn't want him, anyway. Nobody could ever want him.

« Things That Happened To Sam. Chapter 7 - The actual paddling

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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Wednesday, 17 May, Year 9 d.Tr.

Things That Happened To Sam. Chapter 7 - The actual paddling

The actual paddling went by like a blur. Sam felt the first few strokes of a large, flat, wooden implement but then his ass went numb and his mind couldn't step away from reliving the experience of his exposure, and the unspeakable humiliation it brought. They weren't faking it, like the girls on the websites or on the phone, pretending to laugh at him. They were, genuinely, truly, absolutely entertained by his sexual inadequacy. On and on his little rodent of a brain went, spinning like crazy in the delightful, irresistible new toy. He was naked, before everyone. They could see. They made him be naked. They laughed, they all laughed. On and on and on it spun.

When Rodriguez, apparently done paddling him, finally ordered him to remove his shoes, Sam was placid, entirely compliant. He bent down to undo his laces without question, without thought. He pushed off his shoes, he stepped out of his bunched up pants. Two strong hands grabbed solid hold of his sides, preventing him from standing back up. Then he felt it. It. At the entrance, on his asshole. It was going to go in.

Fear of unmitigated, unmitigable proportions gripped Sam to the very core of his being. His kidneys froze. His bladder froze. His heart jumped. He's going to be exposed. They are all going to see. They are all going to...

You see, Sam had read at some point on some dedicated forum that you can always tell when a man has been playing around. Even if he doesn't want to admit it -- his asshole will.

Sam had for many years been fooling around down there. He never said a word to Pam. He wouldn't think of it. He never bought any dedicated implements, either, not so much for the fear of being discovered as out of the sheer unthinkable nature of buying dedicated implements for that purpose. He couldn't say a word about it to himself, either, as it turns out. He wouldn't think of it. And so he used whatever he could, on the spur of the moment so to speak. Vegetables made reliable fodder. Random packaging on occasion -- a certain bottle of sun tan they had a few years back gave him enduring, oft repeated delights he still recalled. It was particularily well shaped.

He enjoyed the whole thing even more after reading that comment, about how his asshole would give him away if he ever ended up in a situation. It made it even better, for him, to think while doing it that he's not just fucking himself in the ass, but that he's training his asshole for one day, when it will betray him, and make it clear, make it obvious to everyone... But today, as he felt the tip of Rodriguez' penis on his asshole, all that history came crashing down and he was frozen in an unspeakable panic. The fear of the young maiden in love for the first time, wondering if the object of her affections will see the woman still mostly buried inside her, or rather be fooled by the decaying child, falling off her at the seams but still firmly attached in many joints and places. Will his asshole betray him to Rodriguez ? Will he be made whole ? Will daddy finally take him home ?

Rodriguez slid right in, without much difficulty whatsoever. He didn't go very fast at all, but he was thick. As he felt his asshole stretched, his walls give way to the man, a different panic flushed over Sam. "No condoms ?" he turned around, eyes wide.

"What for ? You are a virgin, aren't you ?" barked the Sergeant mounting him.

Sam made no reply, and Rodriguez slapped his ass, hard. "Are you a virgin, little bitch ?" he barked.

"Yes!" came Sam's yelp.

"Call me sir!" and another, harder slap. Sam's ass was tingling with the sensation of having been roasted over hot coals.

"Yes sir!" Sam yelped again.

"Yes sir what!" barked Rodriguez again, moving into a comfortable, regular stroke.

"Yes sir! I will call you sir! Yes sir! I am a virgin sir!" grunted Sam at regular intervals.

"A virgin what!" responded the other, increasing his speed, and reaching deeper into Sam with each stroke.

"Yes sir! I am... yes sir! a virgin... sir! little... yes sir! little bitch! sir!"

"Do you like it in the ass, bitch ?"

"Yes Sir! I like it sir! In the ass, yes sir!"

There was a pause. Rodriguez said nothing, his balls rising to meet his shaft. He concentrated on fucking the shit out of that asshole, while Sam continued to yelp and grunt in cadence. "Yes sir! In the ass, sir! Fuck me! Yes sir! Give me your cum sir! Shoot in me sir! Make me pregnant! Yes sir!"

The audience was completely silent. It was almost like a religious experience, a particularily well delivered oration, a Mass to be remembered. Nobody laughed, nobody spoke, there was not a whisper. The breaths were shallow, unaudible. Rodriguez finally complied, voluminously, with the little bitch's insistent requests. He then walked casually around the quivering, still bent at the middle mess of Sam and stuck his penis in his face. Behind Rodriguez, Sam could see some guy putting on his foot something looking just like his shoe. There was a pile of burning debris further down the road, but Sam wasn't wondering where his clothes ended up. He was still wearing his shirt, anyway.

As he gulped down Rodriguez' dirty shaft, the pungent, copper-like odour of feces together with the strong, iron-like taste of blood struck him. The savory metals man's made of made Sam gag, but Rodriguez grabbed his ear and that magically made the gagging go away. Every thought left Sam's mind, leaving behind a delightful, loose, relaxed emptiness. His brain was finally one with his ass, and Sam experienced simple, straightforward bliss while licking and slurping his faeces and fluids off the other man's rod. Rodriguez grabbed Sam's ass cheeks in his hands. While kneading them roughly, pushing them together and apart he invited anyone to come take his place. The boys weren't interested in actually plunging their youthful rods down the brown well, even as they couldn't take their eyes off the gringo, dutifully sucking and suckling away. A few men took their friend, or neighbour, or countryman, or whatever up on the open offer of another's booty, but Sam couldn't really feel anything. Rodriguez had forever captured his heart.

Sam woke up from his trance briefly now and again during the night, once to find himself kneeling on the same indistinct item he had seen Pam kneeling on, other times in other circumstances. They all ran together. Eventually the crowd died down, and they had evidently moved inside. Sam woke up with the retracted, exhausted penis he had admired Pam worship in his own mouth. It wasn't nearly as immense now, or perhaps it just didn't feel as immense. It filled his mouth completely, stretching out his cheeks, resting comfortably on the very back of his neck, its tip bulging slightly down his throat. Sam felt great, with his mouth tightly wrapped on the monster he felt safe, and protected, and well at ease. His asscheeks burned, his asshole burned, but he didn't want to move.

Dried cum prevented him from opening his left eye, so he closed the right one too. He then felt a soft caress on his cheek, and looked up. It was Pam, she was kneeling in front of him, her left breast rubbing on Rodriguez' brother's right knee as she moved.

"Oh, baby!" she whispered quietly. Sam looked at her as the thought of stirring crossed his head. He couldn't do it, plain and simple, just didn't have it in him. "What did they do to you" she cooed, aware he could hear her, uninterested in any particular response. "They fucked you right and proper, baby, didn't they" she continued. "They fucked you in the ass", she whispered "lots and lots and lots". Then after a brief pause, "You liked it, didn't you baby. You liked it when the men fucked you in the ass. You loved it, didn't you." Her questions were entirely rhetorical, had a sing-song-y quality rather suggestive of a nursery rhyme. "It's good in the ass, isn't it baby. It's the best in the ass. Stretch you nice and wide, all the way. All the way it goes, and more then. Open you all up to them, to take their cocks in. Oh, baby..."

« Things That Happened To Sam. Chapter 6 - That was too much

Things That Happened To Sam. Chapter 8 - Sam finally gathered »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Wednesday, 17 May, Year 9 d.Tr.

Things That Happened To Sam. Chapter 6 - That was too much

That was too much for Sam, who pounced fists first on the large man. The large man didn't even understand what was going on, Sam's onslaught failed to visibly influence his balance or produce any other notable effect. He turned around confused, incomprehending, in the process losing Pam's left nipple from between his lips. The Sergeant however went completely nuts.

"How dare you attack my own brother in my house! After I vouched for you at the station! I took you into my house when you had nowhere to go! I even cooked for you!"

There was stunned silence, Sam frozen with his inconsequential fists clenched, up in the air, Rodriguez's brother turned to the two, looking from one to the other while holding on to Pam with his right arm. Her eyes were still closed, her hips swaying slowly in a rhythm of their own, unrelated to the music playing, or perhaps just indirectly related.

"Who do you think you are! You can just spit on our hospitality like that?" Rodriguez was pale, screaming at the top of his lungs in a white hot fury. "I should just throw you into the street! Let the gangs have you both. They will not be as nice as the young men this afternoon, I can tell you that."

Through all the confusion, the last words made the most effect on Sam. His eyes opened wide. "Men ? What men ?" he babbled, but Rodriguez's brother simply pushed him back, open hand to the face. Sam fell on his ass near the couch and just sat there, dazed. Men ?

Rodriguez spat at him, then turned around and went across the room where he opened a door. His brother simply lifted Pam over his shoulder and followed. As Rodriguez' abundent, cohesive phlegm made its way slowly towards his right ear, Sam could see Pam wave at him as she was being submerged, ass first, into the mysterious au-dela of that fabled next room. Other than lions, and wolves and bears oh my! the deepest recesses of Rodriguez' lair held a whole lot of darkness and some excited, adolescentine giggles. One couldn't readily make out just how many different cousins there were, on account of boys all sounding essentially alike, and especially so when communicating their giddy sexual anticipation. Perhaps half a dozen, maybe less ? Maybe more ?

Sam couldn't stand up for the longest time. Perhaps it was the beer, if one could call Crap that, or perhaps it was the warm wind of the desert, although the locale had no deserts, but he fell asleep briefly. Maybe sleep isn't the exact word, a sort of waxy, comatose state. He passed out from the shock of falling on his ass and the accumulated excitement of the day like men pass out from taking 10g. Eventually he emerged, and hurriedly picked himself to his feet under the pressure of a very important realisation. He really must apologize to Rodriguez and his brother, he thought. If he could only explain to them, if he could... otherwise who knows what they were going to do to Pam. He must beg their forgiveness, he realised, panic grasping him viscerally. He must...

He rushed over to the closed door. Light came through the cracks and crannies, and even without the happy yelps and grunts the excitement was palpable. It hung about the door, in loose cottony clouds, you could definitely smell it. The setting was an outdoor patio, lit by the moon and a crude electric light hung by the bare wire. Pam was in the middle, half kneeling on some indistinct matter, like a cube made out of loose straw hat. A boy, completely naked, had a very firm grasp of her ass and was pumping her like his life depended on it. Sweat glistened on his body, his eyes betraying very frank ecstasy. Pam, with her back almost horizontal, her hourglass build readily amortizing the lunges of the boy having his way with her, was entirely focused on the thing in her hands. Very daintily, with extreme, loving care she kissed around it. The big man was not really so much big in his body as he was big in his privates. The schlong before her was enormous, it looked to Sam about the size of his forearm, at the least. Perhaps it was the angle, or perhaps it was the warm wind of the desert -- although there were no deserts anywhere.

Sam was transfixed. He couldn't look away. Without noticing he was leaning ever so slightly into the door, which was opening at the slowest of paces. Was he trying to expose himself ? He couldn't look away. His wife's mouth, the stranger's drill, it was intoxicating. Pam didn't look away either, she was utterly worshipping that thing. Eventually, as the boy pumping her lost his load somewhere inside Pam's welcoming, velvety depths and another boy moved in to take his place behind her, Rodriguez looked up, and caught Sam peeping.

How long had he been there, discreetly spying on his wife being used as a party favour by a bunch of smelly locals ? How long had they used Pam for their cum rag, and how long had he, Sam, watched them use her ? He swore to cherish and protect her, well she was being cherished alright. Not that much protected, however -- as most of the troop rushed towards him the only thing in Sam's mind, the only thought he could form was that nobody was wearing any condoms. How could they not wear condoms ?

They dragged him on the porch, yelling "Peeping Tom! Peeping Tom!" like it was some kind of birthday party anthem, twisting and twirling him around, a thousand hands grabbing on his clothes, a million arms pushing him this way or that. Sam was beside himself. Pam never looked up, her eyes entirely fixed on her meatstick. Eventually Rodriguez asked, loudly and formally, what should the peeping Tom's punishment be. "Paddling!!!" came as a rush, in unison from all mouths. He was going to be paddled. The thought suddenly rushed through his veins. They are going to paddle him. Here, on this porch, with the door open to the street behind, he noticed, with random locals standing around idly watching the show. They are going to paddle him!

"Take off your pants!" Rodriguez barked at him. Sam didn't know what to do. Rodriguez stepped over to him, pinched a solid grab of Sam's left ear in between his thumb and forefinger, and lifted him way up in the air. Then he shook his hand violently around. Sam's ear was a shade of scarlet not usually encountered in nature.

"Take off your pants!" Rodriguez barked again, and the others caught it and chanted it endlessly, like an undying echo. "Off your pants! Off your pants! Off your pants! Off your pants!" Slowly, like in a trance, Sam undid his belt and pushed his pants down. He looked at his pants, bunched up around his ankles, then he looked at Rodriguez. Then he looked at the indistinct crowd. Then he looked at Rodriguez again. Pam was looking at the huge penis filling both her hands, but Sam didn't look at her.

"Look him!" he heard around, and "what that ?" among a deluge of indistinct chatter, as the boys were pointing at him all around. Just as Rodriguez ordered him to remove his knickers too, the realisation struck Sam : men there didn't wear underwear. They didn't even know any words for male underwear. Underwear was all girly stuff as far as they were concerned. Knickers, silly frilly things. The shock made him blush, and it also prepared him for the impact of the laughter. As he bunched up his shorts with his pants at his ankles, the entire patio, and the whole street was alight with laughter. They were pointing at him, laughing, in sheer disbelief. What the hell is that ?

His penis, which Pam had always assured him worked great and was fine etcetera, his penis which had tented angrily against the pants all through the day, and had leaked substantial amounts of precum in multiple installments was now, in the presence of these boys fucking his wife entirely limp, tiny, almost completely retracted inside his body. It wasn't much below average size, perhaps a little thin, but Sam had never seen it this tiny, not even in primary school.

« Things That Happened To Sam. Chapter 5 - True to his word

Things That Happened To Sam. Chapter 7 - The actual paddling »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Wednesday, 17 May, Year 9 d.Tr.

Things That Happened To Sam. Chapter 5 - True to his word

True to his word the Sergeant returned in an hour in civilian clothes and led them to his little car, a strange brand neither Sam nor Pam had ever seen before, or in all likelyhood ever will again. It was "Oltcit", the name itself an illustrative portmanteau : joining together the river Olt, a sad, muddy affair lost somewhere on the hopeless plain of a vain but inept people, and part of Citroen, famed the world over for making the worst cars anyone ever made. French technology, like British cuisine only decidedly worse. More muddy river than bad car, the Oltcit sports a directly aspirated three stroke engine, multilaterally developed drive train, interiors made of plastic so cheap it puts 1970s Pittsburg bachelor pads to shame and airbags. Ah, no, not really -- just kidding about that last item.

Notwithstanding its generally potato-like appearance (nor the fact that the back wheels were attached to the outside of the body rather than any kind of axle, as per the latest fashions and discoveries of French technology at the time), the Oltcit fancied itself a sports car and so only had two doors (and a periscope hatch -- periscope sold separately). While Sam sat in front, Pam had to squeeze herself into the backseat through a narrow gash about three inches wide between the badly cut body and the uncomfortable front chair. It was well worth it, though, because this way the automaker got to save on hinges. As you might expect the process made her skirt bunch up and exposed her all.

She pulled it down eventually, but the Sergeant certainly got an eyeful, which, in fairness, was also well worth it. Sam spent the rest of the trip glaring at her now and again through one of the two available mirrors, alternatively. It was twilight and some of the roads were not exactly well lit, but Sergeant Rodriguez obviously knew his way around. He drove the little repurposed can at frightening speeds down the narrow hallways, in places even exceeding 50. Sam was very much relieved once they finally arrived, an hour or so later. Pam evidently couldn't have cared less. The destination was a modest little house, made out of something that masqueraded being wood. Not pine though, something else. As the car parked on the street, its upholstery and the "walls" waved at each other discreetly. Brothers are always glad to meet, and the substance composing both was flexible enough to allow waving.

The amiable Sergeant led the gringo couple inside, served them some sort of undrinkable local swill which Sam belaboured with for the whole cooking interval, without managing to reach halfway through the approximately clean glass. Pam gulped it down in a few sips early on. Another man also joined them for dinner. He was brawnier than the Sergeant, but the family resemblance was rather obvious. Rodriguez explained that he lived with his brother, who scratched out a living chartering out his boat to tourists, and his cousins. Their number or respective occupations were not discussed. Whether said cousins rented boats or lived with Rodriguez was similarily not examined in much detail.

Dinner was certainly spicy and not much else, but the beer seemed to wash it down alright, and improvingly so as the night wore on. The local beer is, through some unfortunate circumstance, actually called Crap. It comes in two liter plastic bottles, like Pepsi, to save on packaging and hinges, or alternatively in larger, thicker white plastic containers. Aluminum is not particularily expensive, but evidently man can come up with drinks so cheap they're actually not worth the can, or the keg. Rodriguez had one of those large plastic containers, and he kept refilling Pam's glass and on occasion Sam's as well. He really didn't go through the stuff quite as fast as her.

Pam complimented Rodriguez on his cooking ; Rodriguez complimented Sam on her looks. This went back and forth for a while. Sam wanted to say something but didn't know what, or how. The brother, whose name was never spoken, complimented Sam on his girlfriend. Sam explained they're married, but this made no difference whatsoever in the proceedings -- whenever he'd try to point it out subsequently they'd joyfully confirm, "Yes, girlfriend!" and carry on. Sam wanted to ask the man's name, but didn't know how to achieve such result. Eventually he tried, but the man laughed, pointed at his broad chest, and intoned "Me boyfriend!". Everyone laughed, including Pam, which left Sam teethering on the edge of tears. What the fuck did it all mean ? He had no idea, nor any clue as to how to proceed. How'd he find out what it all means so he can adequately respond ? You can't respond until you understand what's going on, isn't that right ? Otherwise, why! You might make a fool of yourself! Or worse!

After dinner, the Sargeant announced his brother agreed to take them over to St. Thomas in his boat the next morning. Sam was very relieved, and assured both men that he will be able to pay just as soon as he got back to the cruise ship and had his traveller's checks replaced. They laughed both and nodded "no". "Do not worry, payment in advance, is ok." they reassured him. Sam went into a complete tailspin, trying to explain to the two inebriated locals that's not how money works. They didn't seem to care, or pay much heed to him, for that matter.

The conversation, approximate as it was, moved away from the topic. Sam kept trying to bring it back to money and payments and such, mirroring his earlier mirror activities. Pam seemed altogether unconcerned. She was visibly buzzed, maybe even drunk. She was also evidently enjoying the men's compliments. It went deeper than that, actually. She visibly enjoyed their attention, it clearly and deeply flattered her, what with all the smiling shyly and darting her eyes to the sides. All the while the redness that had started in her cheeks slowly spread to her cleavage and beyond. She was plainly seeking it, which is why when they proposed she dance on the table and she refused it was obvious to all those involved (with the exception of Sam) that she's definitely going to do it, if they insist.

And insist they did, and dance she did. She took off her shoes, they cleared off the table, then she stepped up on a chair and presently was twisting and twirling and moving her feet to some reggae beat. The twisting and stepping weren't even that big of a deal, but the twirling plainly exposed her buttocks and hairless mound to the seated men. Sam was stunned, or pretended to be, or was unaware that he's pretending to be stunned, or whatever proper name you prefer for the situation when a submissive man sees plainly his wife is about to be fucked by strangers and the perspective fills him with the excited, unbridled joy of a child about to get chocolate cake. Not that he would ever admit it, of course. That wouldn't be proper, you can't say such things and that's all there is to it. What you say is very important, that's what our democracy, and plainly speaking civilisation altogether is all about. Isn't it ?

The men stood up, first Rodriguez and then his brother (standing up is here contemplated in the sense of rising to their feet -- in the other sense the brother was first and Rodriguez second). Rodriguez grabbed hold of Pam's waist, as if to steady her. His brother simply grabbed her ass, through the skirt. This evidently didn't satisfy him, because as Pam closed her eyes and reached her arms around each man's neck in a very loving gesture, he reached under her skirt and, lifting it up he proceeded to fondle her behind like nobody's business. He was just about done stuffing the rim of her skirt into her waistband, bunched up and almost entirely exposing her when whatever bubbles percolated through Sam's head enough to have him jump to his feet.

"Now just a minute!" Sam shouted, "My wife is not for sale!"

Rodriguez stopped unbuttoning Pam's third button, her ample breasts already clearly visible through the makeshift decolletage in all their rosy glee. She didn't open her eyes, her head leaned back a little.

"Wait minute ? Wait minute ?" the brother proceeded rapidly. "No wait minute. Not minute. You ride. We ride. Everyone happy. Good way. Morning, ride boat. Now..." and with that he plunged his head into Pam's chest, making her shudder with something that might've perhaps been excitement.

« Dialogue on economy and other things.

Things That Happened To Sam. Chapter 6 - That was too much »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Wednesday, 17 May, Year 9 d.Tr.

Things That Happened To Sam. Chapter 4 - Sam and Pam were separated

Sam and Pam were separated at the police station, as per immemorial practice of that ancient institution. He had to wait a few hours in a holding pen, in the company of a few passed out, harmless drunks before someone showed up and took him to an interrogation room. He had managed to lose his wallet at some previous point, but they didn't really care so much. They already knew who he was, having found his passport in Pam's purse. She held on to his passport for him, not exactly unusual for middle class couple traveling, but certainly an inexplicable arrangement for a random john, and absolutely unheard of in between pimp and his whore. She evidently wasn't pimping him out, he certainly wasn't worth two shits as muscle, what the fuck were they doing there ?

The police had no idea, and not that much interest in finding out. They didn't even bother fucking Pam. She did have to go naked in the hooker pen, of course, like all the other girls. "For her security", which did make some sense, as on occasion the captive working girls had tried to use belts, sleeves and other portions of their apparel to settle their hierarchy disputes, and strangled hookers overnight really didn't look well on the day reports. She also had to give a quickie blowjob to a young and apparently very horny junior policeman, but apart from all that they ignored her altogether.

The cops perfunctorily inquired with Sam as to the reason Pam was dressed in that manner. They didn't seem to care much what the answer was, before or after receiving it. They did ask a few times again, just for good measure. The truth of the matter is that police work is boring drudgery all the time you aren't getting shot at. They also inquired what she, or he for that matter, were doing in that part of town, and why they were in an alley, and a few other things. Then they sent him back to the pen, and he spent a sleepless if undisturbed night among the faint, wheezing snores of the sparsely lost.

Pam got considerably more sleep, but her night was a lot more disturbed. She didn't speak Spanish any, and at first couldn't understand what all the other girls thought passed for English. There were nineteen of them, most teenagers, but hardened, decisive, firm stony gazes and unexpected muscular strength under the dirt and tanned skin. She had to explain why she was turning tricks without a permit, as it were, to the other girls working the same territory. She protested that she wasn't turning tricks, and she supported this by pointing out what she, in her bourgeois worldview, deemed an absolute proof : she took no money. The girls took about fifteen minutes to chew through what she meant, but once the realisation formed that the gring whore's idea of "not having turned tricks" was being fucked alright, just not taking any money for it whatsoever, pandemonium broke out.

It wasn't very loud, as they didn't want to irk the disinterested officers into intervening, but it was rather effectual, and Pam spent a few good hours licking out each and every working girl, pussy and asshole, tongue all the way in, getting a decent sample of the semen available on the island in the process. They made her crawl and kiss their feet and suckle their toes and slither her tongue in between, they made her lick them after using the communal toilet, in short they used the hell out of her. Eventually they'd let her be, and Pam fell asleep instantly, profoundly, like a rock, but then they'd wake her up again and make her do something else, or rather, the same things over again. Then she'd catch a wink a sleep, and be awoken again, and so on until daylight came, bright and clear, and with it an orange jumpsuit, dirty in the specific way institutionally laundered clothes are dirty -- deeply, inconspicuously, furtively and secretly so as to not irk the officer in charge into taking any kind of action. She put it on with some relief, without showering, and padded barefoot out of the holding pen to meet Sam. Her husband. Whatever.

He helpfully declared she looked very out of sorts and inquired if she was OK. She was ok, after a fashion, she confirmed.

"I was just humiliated at the airport in front of dozens of people. I was molested on a public bus, and then raped in an alley. And then I went to jail for it. Yeah, I guess I'm ok."

Sam assured Pam he was sorry. Pam was silent for a while. Then she explained the jail part :

"They put me in a cage with a lot of prostitutes. They thought I was trying to poach on their territory or something. They made me do things."

Sam examined Pam for bruising in a very superficial, naive manner a child might attempt it : without disturbing anything, fully aware that his continued toleration on the premises is predicated on his not disturbing anything. Then he wanted to know what they did, and she didn't want to talk about it.

"Did they hurt you?" he insisted.

"They made me lick their dirty pussies. And their filthy assholes. And their feet. And after they used the toilet. OK, happy now?"

Sam was stunned. "They made you?" he stammered.

"Yes. One held my arm behind my back and pushed my face between the legs of the other. They pulled my hair. They made me promise I won't yell or scream. They made me say I love licking their dirty cunts. They made me beg for it, for them to let me lick. They told me that if I stuck around the town they'll do it to me every day. They said I could be their little toilet slut."

They sat in silence a few minutes, Pam watching Sam's tent disinterestedly the whole time. The moment was interrupted by a guy calling himself Sergeant Rodriguez, who uncharacteristically for the locality apologized for making them wait. Sergeant Rodriguez assured them that they've verified their story, with the airport and local street vendors and that they were telling the truth. He explained that prostitutes coming in from the mainland are a big problem in his city. He explained the release forms he was preparing, and how the release process works. He offered to call them a cab. Sam had to admit he had no money, like an ineffectual, small child caught yet again in situations requiring the hand of an adult. Sergeant Rodriguez advised him to cancel all credit cards right away as they were likely in the hands of criminals by now.

It was only then that the big "what next" question hit Sam. Obviously, the cruise ship had long sailed. They had no money, no credit cards and no alternate manner to procure any money. Pam certainly believed the working girls struggling to split among themselves a dwindling supply of sustenance weren't playfully making idle threats. Sam had to, he had to you understand, explain to the officer, in the plaintive tone requisite for the occasion, that they had no money, no credit cards, no way to rent a hotel room nor arrange for transportation to the missed ship, that great big beast of progress which contained somewhere in its ample bowels all their luggage, which is to say any clothes that didn't smell like the police station. Surprisingly, Sergeant Rodriguez offered to put them up at his place for the night. He also said his brother had a fast boat which would probably be able to catch up with the ship in St. Thomas if they left early enough in the morning.

Sam was entirely blown away, and he thanked the man before him profusely, piling teary eyed gratitude atop teary eyed gratitude on the head of the smiling sergeant. Pam was silent. Rodriguez had a sly, sideways sort of smile that looked very much copied after some cartoon villain or other, but Sam gave the matter no attention whatsoever. They were saved! Saved! Rodriguez eventually broke off the encounter, pointing out that he gets off duty in a couple of hours, at which point he will gladly take them home, but until then he does have to attend to his daily business. He did promise to have some food sent over, which showed up half hour later or thereabouts, modest styrofoam packed cafeteria fare. Sam scarfed down most of it, pointing out to the disinterested Pam that beggars can't be choosers after all, gushing all the while the praises of that most worthy among mankind, their munificent benefactor, the great, the only Sergeant Rodriguez himself and in person!

« Things That Happened To Sam. Chapter 3 - Once outside the terminal

Finding Optimum »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Tuesday, 09 May, Year 9 d.Tr.

Things That Happened To Sam. Chapter 3 - Once outside the terminal

Once outside the terminal they discovered the chartered bus had taken off. This unremarkable cvasi-event nevertheless had a powerful effect on them. Who cares some bus took off, really ? Yet Pam and Sam did care ; they cared most definitely, and very intensely, like schoolchildren care about not having the homework, like teenagers care about their bumbling amorous encounters. They felt abandoned, and they felt desperate. They experienced untold urgency to recover their place among those blessed by the bus, the bus' own chosen people. The obvious explanation would run along the lines of their sexual interaction with faceless authority having put both into a highly responsive, overexcited nervous state, something reflective subbies refer to as "sub space". Perhaps there were others.

They didn't think Pam had the time to change into something other than a practically see-through blouse and a cheap mid thigh A-line, and besides -- all their stuff was in the bags that had already been taken to the ship, according to smelly men who just had their fingers up Pam's holes, so they'd know. You can't possibly put something else on if all the stuff you previously had got stashed away somewhere out of reach because no item of clothing was ever replaced nor is present need the driver and consideration behind all such replacement ; and you certainly don't have the time to do so after having missed the bus and are at leisure to come up with a substitute conveyance of your own choosing. This sort of "thinking" makes sense, in some contexts, such as for instance when women are about to get knocked up.

They'd simply have to take a regular bus, they decided, and so they beelined for the stop. The service ran between the airport terminal and the dock on tenish minute schedule. The next bus left just as they were arriving. It seemed busy to them, so they decided to wait for the next one, imagining it would only be a couple of minutes, as the posted material dutifully informed. Sadly the posted material was also out of date. Puerto Rico was fading as a destination for this, or most any other purpose, owing to the miserable human quality of the inhabitants just as much if not more than to the changing mores and fashions of the somewhat-moneyed. Neglect and disrepair were obvious everywhere, such as for instance in the simple fact that nobody could be arsed to take off a misleading schedule.

After spending every moment busily cycling through the perception that they don't have any option but to wait another moment, when the next bus finally came by (about 12 minutes or 1440 moments later) they didn't figure they have any option but to push themselves in, notwithstanding it was even more crowded than the previous one. The happy bounce of Pam's breasts made it obvious she was wearing no bra to anyone who came in either visual or tactile contact with her. She'd have had to be careful about sitting down lest she exposed her smoothly shaved vulva, except most any kind of sitting was strictly out of the question. People with spots that good were probably never giving them up, they just went round and round the bus circuit for hours on end just to enjoy the glory that is getting a seat in such a crowd.

More people rushed into the bus at the next stop, forcing Pam and Sam apart with the unyielding, mudslide impetuus of third worlders. They've a will to live, those bioblobs, a certain dull determination to push through, like roots and vines, blind, unthinking. Mooo!

Sam tried to swim and noodle his way back towards his wife, but the semipermeable dam of life all around put up an impenetrable barrier for him. She was surrounded by an unyielding wall of men. They were pressing up against her, and she was making no corresponding effort to break through it and reunite with him. He noticed this fact, and immediately interpreted it sexually, which is to say : subconsciously, it aroused him ; while consciously he digested it by reference to his own childhood, and the experience of enforced humiliation and inferiority that blessed period of human life brings. She was wiser than him to not struggle, because what's the point, it'd just tire them out. It's all about wisdom, see, and how one shouldn't do silly things, and this aroused him even further, though he'd never dared look at it. How could he have ? Sam felt a deep, enduring connection with his mother, watching his wife pressed on in the bus, just as he wasn't feeling any such thing. Really now, what sort of a dirty mind is needed to come up with this sort of crap ? Sam didn't know, because he never thought about it, because why would he have ? Nobody does.

Slowly the realisation crept up that it really was nothing but young men around his wife. As the bus swayed down the street Pam's head suddenly snapped up, her eyes open wide with something that might have been surprise. Perhaps something else. Sam pushed himself to the side, and momentarily got a better picture of what was going on. He could now and again catch a glimpse of her torso, and he didn't not like what he saw. The young man behind her had his hands up her skirt. The young man in front of her also had his hand up her skirt. At least three hands were fondling her breasts through the now open blouse, their attached young men indistinct in the crowd. As he pushed every which way in his fleshy prison, Sam could see Pam biting her lip. He knew what that meant, and when she did it. Pam bit her lip when she tried to suppress her sexual arousal. Were these unknown young men turning her on by silently groping her on a public bus ? His Pam ? They all wore shit-eating grins plastered all over their faces. Just then the bus stopped again and Sam watched in something akin to horror as three men got off the bus and swept his wife along with them. He flailed wildly, trying desperately to get to the door before the bus starting moving again, but didn't make it in time. He was well frantic by the time it stopped again and he could fly out the door. He didn't really fly like an arrow ; perhaps more like fruit flies.

Sam took to running down the street in the direction the bus had come. He got to a spot which more or less looked like where Pam was gotten off, but he didn't see any trace of her anywhere. In a mad, lustful panic he asked some street vendors if they had seen her. One nodded and pointed to an alley nearby. He dashed that way back up the street. Once he reached it he slowed down, breathing fast and shallow, heart in his throat. He daintily peered in around the corner. The alley was dark and didn't smell too good, even by Puerto Rico standards of scenting. Sam's thymus was awash in disappointment when suddenly he realised the moving blob halfway down wasn't simply a pile of garbage, but actually a small group of people. Heart thumping in his throat again, he quickly went up to them. As he got close enough to see, he saw Pam, left arm resting on a garbage container, right hand wrapped around a man's penis. She was jacking it up and down, not very fast, a well timed pumping motion. Meanwhile another young man was leaning back on the same garbage bin. His cock was in her mouth, and she bobbed her head slightly. A third man was behind her, and on the next step Sam was blown away by the plain sight of his wife's labia bulging under the pressure of a third man's penis going in and out of her slickly, smoothly. Sickeningly. Sam bent over, winded. His skin tingled all over, like with frostbite. His limbs were drained of blood, with one exception -- his raging erection. He never had it that big, never ever before. Not even on their wedding night.

Pam's blouse was up well around her neck. Her skirt was still attached to one ankle, but Pam was stepping on it with the other foot. Sam watched her sway in the hands of the men, being slowly spitroasted among the garbage in an alley. He was mesmerized. The next thing he knew, all the locals ran away and then the police showed up. They made two arrests that day : a female gringo hooker, and a gringo male who was either a punter or her pimp, to be decided later. Sam's plaintive protestations / incoherent babble did little to change anything in that disposition. Pam was silent throughout.

« Teatro "La Comedia" de San Jose (Calle 13, entre Av. 6 y 8)

Things That Happened To Sam. Chapter 4 - Sam and Pam were separated »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Monday, 08 May, Year 9 d.Tr.

Things That Happened To Sam. Chapter 2 - As chance had it.

As chance had it, Sam made it through security at San Juan Luis Munoz Martin airport. Pam, however, was flagged, and asked to step aside for a complete inspection. Sam tried insinuating himself, in his mealy mouthed, obnoxious manner, protesting that he's her husband and yakking something or other about what needed or needn't be done. The jibaroos in matching hats didn't seem like they could care less. Their story was that the drug dog had "signalled", and they were sticking to it, the absurdity of someone smuggling drugs into Puerto Rico notwithstanding.

Pam was led by one bodinki to a curtained off area where another waited with her luggage. This contemporary Telesterion was roped off, which sufficed to discourage Sam from straggling along, but they didn't bother pulling in the curtains, so he watched from a safe distance across the impenetrable barrier brought into physical being by a thin strip of cheap but colorful synthetic fabric. The men insistently but disinterestedly went through every stitch of her packed clothing, taking their time with her swimwear and the vaguely racy set of lace underwear Pam had apparently bought for the trip -- Sam hadn't ever seen it before. They also went through all her various bottles, vials, flasks, recipients, containers etcetera. It's not readily believable how many different flavourings of margarine the average thirty year old perceives she must carry on her person. At long last a third was called, and the luggage got ferried away to be loaded into the boat.

Sam thought they were done, but Sam was wrong as usual. The dog was brought, an ugly mutt of indistinct parentage. He took his sweet time sniffing away at Pam, and eventually the older (and therefore senior) porqin explained to her that the dog is smelling something, so she'll have to remove her clothes.

Pam, getting ever more nervous throughout the adventure, had finally arrived at the point of shaking. She asked for a female official, to which they replied that there aren't any currently available, and she'll have to wait until one returns from lunch break, supposedly three to four hours later. Apparently chewing an adequate pile of fat fried pork rinds takes a very long time.

Pam looked at Sam across the magical length of string. Sam looked at Pam, across ad idem. Their ship left in about two hours. They were going to miss it, unless... Perhaps they could catch up to it at St. Thomas, if they sprung to charter another boat, or perhaps a small plane. The thought made Sam frown just as Pam was offering an obsequious "Ok, let's get this over with." Sam imagined Pam noticed his frowning, and interpreted it as his being angry with her. Sam further imagined this were the driver of her submission. It is very cheap to imagine things, and with a little practice one can get these imaginations to always enthrone the self in the very center, as the locus of all causation and all explanation. Why not, after all, it's just like watching TV except without any outside advertising.

Sam blushed with the unconscious, or rather, repressed, anticipation of his wife stripping for some strange monkeys on some island somewhere. One of them pulled a curtain over the fourth wall, somewhat blocking Sam's view. It didn't close all the way, however, but left a three or four inch gap on the side. He could clearly see Pam starting to unbutton her blouse. He tried to position himself so as to block the gap in the curtains, but owing to his insufficient stature and the very sufficient distance provided by the impassible rope barrier his chivalry was a doomed entreprise.

Pam removed her blouse and handed it over, a healthy blush in her cheek. They briefly looked at the item, passing it back and forth before settling it in some kind of colorful plastic basket just as she was removing her shorts. Sam noticed there were other small gaps in the curtains here and there, and they were drawing a small crowd of gawkers, tapping excitedly on their badly designed squarish pieces of plastic with gsm modems attached.

There she stood, in her plain bra and cotton panties, Sam's wife, Pam. She seemed to think she's done, but much to her surprise they weren't about to hand anything back. The show wasn't yet over, and as one man barked they've not got all day. Pam hesitantly reached for the clasp and undid her bra. She slid it off her arms and handed it into expectant hands, only to be passed back and forth and placed eventually in the same colorful basket. As far as Sam could feverishly recall, this was the very first time another man had seen Pam's bosom bare. There was a slight woo from the photoreporters of the future crowd, and then it came time for her panties.

Pam simply pushed them down her smooth legs and stepped out. Her tits dangled enticingly as she bent over to pick them up. Her fresh Brazilian job did Wisconsin proud. She looked good in it, apt, able, competent. Nobody could tell it was her very first time. It had taken considerable prodding from him, Sam thought, yet scarcely could he imagine at the time she'd be putting her baby-smooth slit on full display in front of strangers gathered at will. Or rather, that's what Sam'd have said.

Pam spent a little while naked, shivering with nervous excitement, while a third man brought over a vial half-filled with some sort of clear liquid. They snipped a thread from inside her panties and placed it inside. The whole thing turned a bright, scarlet sort of pink, at which point they informed Pam that since her clothes tested positive they'll have to do a cavity search.

Pam started to object, but they pointed out to her that she has the right to refuse, in which case she will be arrested and tested in custody. Pam took remarkably little time to agree to this latest invasion of her privacy. She put her hands behind her head as instructed, and a moment later a couple of fingers were finding their way inside her vagina. Pam moaned slightly, eyes closed. The ad-hoc inspection official ignored her anus and instead moved on to fondling her breasts. Pam protested, pointing out that her breasts are not cavities, but he returned that they might be fake and he had to make sure. Sam noticed he definitely took his time, even tugging on the nipples repeatedly, and alternatively, no doubt making sure no nerve endings were damaged in the putative plastic surgery.

Sam was already half hard, which was an accomplishment for him in any case. By the time the third man proceeded to inspect his wife six minutes later however he was sporting a tent of such fury it was beginning to distract the focus of the gawker group. Apparently the democratic institutions are so very strong in Puerto Rico, even cavity searches are done in the tribal fashion.

Pam stood there, bare feet on the institutional plastic carpet, palms locked behind her head, while a number of men fondled her pussy. They played with her clit, they toyed with her nipples, they made various remarks about her body shape, skin marks, attitude and posture. The crowd of gawkers kept slowly growing throughout the procedure, by now counting many dozens. They were becoming slightly vociferous, so one of the inspectors had to come out and tell them to move on. He didn't bother pulling in the curtain at all on his return, however, making the point of the exercise perhaps disjoint from its actual effects.

Eventually the airport ran out of interested males to conduct further assays on Pam. She asked for her clothes back, but they told her that they were sent to the lab for analysis, and that she'll receive replacement garments. Pam stood, naked, while the crowd kept hissing suggestions at her, trying to get her to turn this way or that, or move her arms. Eventually a cheap peasant blouse and a short skirt, both plain white, made their way over in an unsealed plastic bag. No bra was included, nor any panties. Her purse and passport were returned shortly thereafter, and a moment later Pam and Sam, hand in hand, were hurrying towards the exit, silently.

« Things That Happened To Sam. Chapter 1 - Sorry.

Balul de Simbata Seara »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Saturday, 06 May, Year 9 d.Tr.

Things That Happened To Sam. Chapter 1 - Sorry.

"Sorry".

The man looked up from the pile of similar papers, indifferently. He took the sheets Sam was sheepishly handing in, slid them under the rest and resumed his reading just as indifferently. Sam stood there for a litle while, then gave a little sigh that sounded just like a little whine, and then shuffled his apologetic walk towards the door.

It is perhaps the layman's expectation that it'd be uncommon for this kind of paper to be handed in with an apology instead of a simple "here you go" or similar. It is nevertheless common to the point of banality for the actual clinician knee deep in marginal human failure. Anyone who conceives of public transportation in his own imagination, as an entirely abstract endeavour, probably imagines buses and trains being late to be similarily exceptional. To anyone else, and especially to anyone who interacts with buses and trains on any sort of regular basis, it's scarcely worth the mention.

People who depend on others for their own conveyance learn quickly to save their mental energy, to ignore failure, to stay and to remain indifferent to the reality of moving time contrasting against stationary mass. People who make their life out of trimming the margins of the human fungus learn just as quickly to save their mental energy, and to ignore Sam altogether.

Sam managed to walk out the door, not without some difficulty. Thresholds always gave him a lot of trouble, which yielded the miserable habit of stopping in doorways, gateways and almost all other natural choke points to the burning annoyance of all the others who had a better handle on their own environment, or at the very least a story they told themselves and others about having something important, or at least useful to do. A good, convincing story.

The last time Sam had such a story it was probably over a decade ago, in college. Or maybe even before that. Sam didn't remember specifically, and for that matter never thought about such things anyway. His concerns never truly rose above the narrow circle of immediate alarm and localized distress, an incoming twist in the corridor, an upcoming performance review, the next weekend. At the moment his thoughts were entirely absorbed in the circumstance that before going out the door, he was still in the room, filling in his paper. Technically. Sam loved this word, and spoke it often putting in it all the passion of his entire existence, or rather, all the passion that he had at his disposal to make do with for his entire existence.

Technically the door separated the Sam who was still filling in his paper, an unknown quantity, from the Sam having turned in his paper. A known, a very well known quantity.

Sam harbored no illusions about his inadequacy, about his insufficiency as a human being. It was manifest in all respects - not quite tall enough, not really athletic enough, certainly not smart enough, not quick enough, insufficiently charismatic, too anxious, too cowardly, blessed with some esprit but only in the d'escalier variety. Too poor, always. Too poor to have gone to the college he went to through a fortuitous interplay between his vaguely ethnic origins and arcane points of university policy working together on the backdrop of his actuarially inclined intellectual life. At that young age it is common for examiners to confuse an inept stickler for a promising young man owing to the natural impetuousness of greater minds, not yet fully in control of their own wheels and gearboxes.

The mistake of educating Sam as if he were a human being was meanwhile reviewed, although perhaps not entirely just yet. He still held, barely, a well paying job in a rather selective office. Perhaps not as selective as the top three firms in the field, but nevertheless, there. Not paying quite as well as the offers the very promising interns were receiving, of course, people eight to ten years his juniors, but still a sizable enough chunk of change, as he liked to joke with his doorman.

Sam really liked his doorman. They were namesakes, but this coincidence wasn't the foundation of Sam's great friendship for Sam, the doorman. Sam thought, in the indistinct, not functional way his brainbox churned words and images, indistinctly, Sam flattered himself rather with the notion that his inclination for Sam was stictly the product of his own, individual and personal inclination, an entirely arbitrary, wholly owned feeling. In reality, the attraction was entirely Sam's unspoken if firm conviciton that they are really one and the same, and through his not being his own doorman, he therefore is actually better than himself. Sam the doorman provided Sam the failure a little solace, an imaginary half walnut shell to cross the abyssal sea of despair assaulting him on all sides. Truth is not much of a friend, which is why people need doormen.

The unfriendly truth, slowly dug up from under the earth by managers and supervisers and performance reviews and friends and acquaintances and random strangers was that Sam had no business being there whatsoever. Not being where ?

Sam gave another squealy sigh and went past the door. He was headed home, where Pam would no doubt be awaiting him, with a warm meal and the encouraging warmth of her generous embrace. They had met in college, she was a freshman, he was a senior. Pam was a very submissive girl, a little shy, born and raised in a small town in the unassuming, forgotten Midwest. The sudden burst of boastful, incandescent male activity she encountered on the college campus chaffed her a little, and scared her a little. As an ad-hoc measure she took refuge into a relationship with Sam, a senior! She liked that he was very happy to walk with her, or talk, or do anything else whatsoever. He even let her take the initiative sexually, which she didn't like all that much, but strictly preferred over the alternative.

As he finished they were married, mostly to save on rent, as Sam managed to grab the last spot in the least desired graduate class, and the university had a generous programme for housing married graduate students that met Sam's particulars. She lived with him rather than in an undergraduate dorm, and by the time she was out of school it just didn't make so much sense to leave. So she stayed.

The alliance of circumstance was evidently not made to last ; that it had last so long was indeed a sad testament to the unbecomingly indolent nature of mankind, and womanhood in particular. The plain knowledge that this, like every other, providential error in his favour was slowly being chiseled down by the flow of events, and would soon be sent to collections by the heavenly bank didn't enter Sam's thoughts per se ; but its presence, vague and threatening, inexpressible yet all-permeating, endless font of primo gloom did visit him, indistinct, in his dreams. It pushed into his meagre emotional capacity, it filled him with incomprehensible anxiety.

The party was certainly about to end. Will they fire him ? They probably will. Sam remembered with a shudder the one time in his junior year when a teacher, a well known figure who was just then working on an invention that would in due time make him a millionaire and save the nation billions took him aside, and told him that the reason he's having trouble is because he's not very intelligent nor working very hard, and suggesting he consider a less demanding line, such as perhaps party furniture rental. It's not so hard to make a living renting out chairs.

Sam ignored the advice then. He didn't find it all that hard to do, either. However, the words kept coming back, and every time they did -- it got a little harder. And harder still. Sam tried to summon the enthusiasm needed to convince others that he's convinced himself to "start out independently" a few times. He knew all along that the only thing entrepreneurship might do for him is accelerate the measuring and weighing. He was still going to be exposed, just that much faster. Some mornings he peptalked himself into putting his head in the guillotine. One motion, right off! It seemed a better fate than the slow, painful peeling of layer after layer after layer. Yet he could never go through with it, and so he never did.

What will he tell Pam ?

As he opened the door, fumbling with the keys for no other reason than because it provided a little breather in between the street and the livingroom, Pam cornered him with giddy excitement.

"Mr. Maloney called, honey!" she chirped. Mr. Maloney was his boss. What could Mr. Maloney have possibly said to Pam that'd make her this eager ? Sam prepared for the worst.

"We're getting two tickets to a Caribbean cruise!"

"What ?"

"Yes, we have plane tickets for San Juan in six days! We're going to spend two weeks on one of those big luxury cruise ships!"

Sam knew not what to say, and so he didn't say very much at all. Her manifest happiness was plenty infectious, and so they had a very joyous dinner before going to bed.

« No Such lAbs (S.NSA), April 2017 Statement

Things That Happened To Sam. Chapter 2 - As chance had it. »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Friday, 05 May, Year 9 d.Tr.

The world has changed

The city boy cooks, he's beautiful & hot, he plays scientific music and uses books for props. He caresses his own hair and doesn't jack off, his allowance could vanish if he got caught. He's got the right words but they never come out and he carries a mirror to watch himself pout. He emerges angry and pumped from the massage&spa, he'll email you his fist un-deux-trois. The pigs nap all day, everything's quiet, the yearly riot features sintered rocks and cardboard molotov cocktails. Nobody fights because nobody remembers how, the neighbourhood's under the control of some tired old sow.

The world has changed, time to relax, the city boy hunts for pokemons in pavement cracks. The "hardened criminals" without rapsheets methodically collect their hairdresser receipts ; under the kevlar there's polyester tanga slips smelling of dildo and chips.

Lengthy battles of words & sliced bologna establish each day who needs the bigger bra. There's time to lose, there's things to choose, there's great plans for great fortunes owned by jews. Complaining's great especially if pointless, three rag dolls in flip-flops to the toilet and the shit still coming out tasteless. Supposedly you should fuck them even though they're fat, push their face in the hat and sprinkle some flour on their twat. The new style boy seems rather girly, the new style girly looks comparatively burly. A rabid panorama, confusedly afloat, hungover trying to recall when did it last voat.

The world has changed, time to relax, the city boy hunts for pokemons in pavement cracks. The "hardened criminals" without rapsheets methodically collect their hairdresser receipts ; under the kevlar there's polyester tanga slips smelling of dildo and chips.

Don't get startled, I get it, you just wanted for the best and not to need to commit. You have my admiration, sucker, you're so very much better than any random trucker. Life's hard and the path obscure, but you'll figure it all out with no brains and no culture. Tears flow freely and the magic is gone, your miserable spawn will be gone by the dawn. A Nagant's always good to keep nearby, don't wonder why. Bye.

The world has changed, time to relax, the city boy hunts for pokemons in pavement cracks. The "hardened criminals" without rapsheets methodically collect their hairdresser receipts ; under the kevlar there's polyester tanga slips smelling of dildo and chips.

Courtesy Cheloo.

« Glam punk

Where THE FUCK!!! is everyone ? »

Category: SUA care este

Sunday, 13 August, Year 9 d.Tr.

The Women

The Womeni makes the dubious stylistical choice of casting absolutely nothing but women. This sort of nonsense was a lot more defensible at the time ; but unfortunately it makes the piece look a lot like blacksploitationii today.

Nevertheless, it's somewhat amusing to watch 1939s liberated girly chafe under the yoke of her kind. "But we're equals now!!!" and so on. You realise, the 1939 upper crust chick was liberated as compared to "those backwards times" her poor mother had to live through! And she ain't gotta put up with any shit she dun wanna! No means no and what is anal ? It's a riot, really, especially if superimposed on the "progress" narrative sung low by minstrels in the background. Speaking of which, time for an intromission :

On top of old Smokey, all covered in snow

She lost her true love for courtin' too slow.

For courtin's a pleasure and parting's a grief

And a false-hearted lover is worse than a thief.

A thief will just rob you, and take what you have,

But a false-hearted lover will put you in the grave.

The grave will decay you, and turn you to dust

Not one boy in a hundred a poor girl can trust

They'll hug you and kiss you, and tell you more lies

Than crossties on the railroad, or stars in the sky.

So come all young maidens, to the clinic with ye

Quit acting like your eggs' works are important to me.

To be perfectly clear : female reproductive biology holds no particular sway over the meaning of love as a noun, as a verb, or as any other part of speech. The she-herd doesn't get to particularly define what "true" love is, and certainly does not get to "educate" the rest of us on the matter. There's no room for special pleading here, and there's certainly no room for "equality" and "agreement" and "consensus" and the usual assortment of bullshit English-droppings.

Nonsense is better when viewed out of fashion, which is why I keep newspapers around : for reading them six to eighteen months after the date of publication. In the exact same vein it turns out Holywood output can be quite entertaining a century or so after its original emission date. So I quite recommend this film, to be honest, today.

Go watch The Women be as utterly irrelevant and entirely impotent as they've always been. It might be good for you, either way.

———No, I obviously do not mean the modern remake, and for the very specific reason that it's a piece of shit dropped by a glorified horse's ass. There's a reason nobody writes "Opera" to suit a donkey's braying, and for that same reason Diane English should have quit through the traditional route : years of rejection and failure until she were spit out the bottom of the porn industry. It's not, however, the ass' fault, but yours for tolerating it -- a point the thicker underscored by her early career.

No, I mean the original 1939 Cukor piece, with a resplendent Norma Shearer, an utterly terrible Joan Crawford trying to be Bette "We Aren't Done With The Embalming Yet" Davis in all the wrong parts much like a child trying to be her mother through powder and lipstick, and an otherwise quite edible Miss Goddard. She was a hottie, you know, a hundred or so years ago. [↩]If by your wits the fact they had to make special films for black people with black people in them in the 70s isn't enough proof 1970s black audiences were mentally retarded, your wits do qualify you for watching some. [↩]

« Beating, that spark of heaven

You will regret having read this »

Category: Trilematograf

Tuesday, 25 July, Year 9 d.Tr.

The Universal Plan for Wealth

Motto: "Her attorney informed us this morning, that although the deed is being assigned to my sister, my brother and I, that if my mother requires nursing home care through Medicare at any point over the next five years, that the Feds will take the house to pay the bills."

What follows below is the only correct, universally applicable plan for wealth management.

If you do not live in the third world, the truth of the foregoing is not a matter open to debate as far as you're concernedi, nor in any sense dubious or in any manner doubtful. It is entirely complete and absolutely accurate. It is also obligatory, as there's no alternative either present or contemplated.

If you live in what was the First World back before your grandfather let your stupid mother ruin it -- this is what you must do.

Step 1. Take all the credit you can. Max out all your existing credit cards, and sign up for any new ones from anywhere. Take a third, fourth, fifth mortgage on any real estate you might own. Sell any chattels (cars, wife, children, everything -- EVERYTHING).

Step 2. Turn all those proceeds into Bitcoin.

Step 3. Leave for a place outside of the fiat reichii.

That's it, and that's all.

And now for the caveats :

Caveat 1. You may have to take menial jobs to support yourself for a few years in your new jurisdiction, but this is par for the course for soviets escaping their socialist nightmare. Plenty of college educated russkis drove cabs in New York back when their college degrees actually signified some intelligence and some work. Bussing tables for a little won't kill you like it didn't kill them.

Caveat 2. Be mindful of what it means to own Bitcoin. Allowing an agent of the Empire of Evil (aka United States Government) to hold your Bitcoin "for you" such as through using a "webwallet" or similar does not mean you're holding any Bitcoin. Read and thoroughly understand the functioning of the Most Serene Republic's currency before you make the leap.

Caveat 3. If you own ~nothing at all (in other words, were born after 1970) then bleeding your credit cards for cash and trading that for a few Bitcoin quarters and dimes is all you've got. Do it right now, and be out of there before the weekend's over. If however you own significant property, the old termite wisdom very much applies : for maximal bleed you might wish to leave some parts for last and replace some other parts with cheap "equivalents". You know, just like the USG itself is doing.

Caveat 4. The USG "law enforcement" is not capable of successfully prosecuting credit card fraud within a one month window. It is perfectly safe for you to buy the blanks, buy the numbers, write them in and hit everything in sight -- provided you start no later than today and you are out of Nuevo Laredo by mid July. If you have either the connections or else a functioning head with a taste for adventure, this little goodbye salvo is de rigueur.

Caveat 5. Accept no substitutes. The USG full well understands TMSR will end it, and has been deploying the full array of nonsense to try and delay the inevitable. Among that arsenal, the constant nonsense surrogates. Do not accept Doge, Ethereum or whatever other USG-sponsored scamcoin-of-the-season in lieu of legitimate Bitcoin.

That'd be it. Bear in mind that "your" house is worth absolutely nothing as it is, but even were you to live in the ideal world you imagine, a house mortgaged to the hilt is worth ~0 by the very working of things. By the time you've taken all the real estate mortgages you can take, you have also possession of all the fiat value that there was to be found in those items -- if they were to burn tomorrow it wouldn't affect your capital position in any manner.

Perhaps they should burn, come to think of it.

In any case -- and make no mistake about this -- there is not going to be a fiat Reich left within your lifetime. There is a reason TMSR.MPEx is not paying USG any tax while USG.Maersk is paying TMSR everything it can, and then some. That reason is the simple and ineluctable fact that while TMSR is the sovereign, the USG is a mere pretender to sovereignity with no basis in either fact or ideology.

In other words : there will not be a United States tomorrow. The Republic won't have it. These aren't matters that require your approval, be it comprehending or uncomprehending. All you can do in face of the inevitable is to start planning accordingly. Today.

Do that.

———To the brave souls that (driven by uncomprehending stupidity) would nevertheless attempt : try and understand that Trilema has made numerous (numerous as in, hundreds) predictions over its decade of continuous, domineering existence -- all of which seemed "insane" and "not even worth seriously discussing" to the horde of imbeciles, all of which came true. Trilema is still here, the horde of imbeciles changed numerous times over its lifetime, and will continue to change, because change is the only option left to he who would pretend sense is "insane" and "not even worth discussing seriously". [↩]On a first evaluation the fiat reich is composed of the United States and its allies -- Canada, Australia, Japan, Western Europe, Saudi Arabia, South Africa etcetera. [↩]

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Category: Trilenciclopedia

Thursday, 29 June, Year 9 d.Tr.

The Strange Case of The Red Stapler and Other Related Stories

The year is 200`000 before Trompi.

A man sits down to eat. A hyena comes out of nowhere and attempts to gnaw at the side of the man's food opposite his mouth.

The man sets the food down and chases the hyena away.

The man returns, and sits down to eat again. A hyena comes out of nowhere and attempts to gnaw at the side of the man's food opposite his mouth.

The man sets the food down again, and chases the hyena away again.

The man returns, and sits down to eat yet again. A hyena comes out of nowhere and attempts to gnaw at the side of the man's food opposite his mouth.

The man sets the food down, grabs a torch, chases the hyena all the way to its nest, and burns the whole god damned thing down, matriarch to last hyena pup.

The man returns, and sits down to eat yet again. He enjoys a quiet meal then, and briefly for a few more occasions on subsequent days, before plague brought on by the rats that used to be kept at bay by the hyenas that no longer exist brings the story to its abrupt end.

The year is 2`000 before Trompi.

A man goes to the shop to buy a ten drachma pair of shoes for his cohabiting whore. Notwithstanding that the man explains why exactly pairs of shoes for cohabiting whores are to be ten drachmas, the obnoxious shop clerk with a vacant stare insists he can't sell them for less than fifteen. The conversation goes on heating for half an hour until the man threatens to burn down the whole damned shop. The clerk agrees to sell the god damned shoes for what they were supposed to sell for in the first place.

The man sends the cohabiting whore to buy a measure of wine the next day, to better celebrate her new shoes with. The cohabiting whore returns half hour later without any wine, and explains that while she tried to explain to the obnoxious shop clerk that a measure of wine should be ten drachmas, he swore up and down he couldn't let her have it for less than fifteen. The man sent her back, and after she returned empty handed again he picked up a torch and went to the wine shop. It was thereby established that indeed the price for a measure of wine being ten drachmas, the man is to leave the money and take the wine.

The man went and paid the Caliph Emir Bin Sultan of the respective settlement a visit, and asked him to pass a law forbidding further haggling. The Caliph (Emir Bin Sultan) saw the wisdom of the man's request, having his own lot of cohabiting whores and the attendant shoe and wine difficulties. Further haggling was forthwith forbidden, and the men enjoyed their respective whores with and without shoes and wine as circumstances demanded for that brief interval before Eastern barbarians effortlessly overpowered the once great empire with an inexplicably collapsed economic basis.

The year is 20 before Trompi.

A man working in a great office farm wrote something on a piece of paper. Another man working in the same or another similar great office farm wrote something else on a piece of paper. The man met the other man, or vice-versa, and words were spoken about what was written on the pieces of paper. Eventually one of them threatened to burn the whole pile of paper down and the other relented.

The next day, a man working in a great office farm wrote something on a piece of paper. Another man working in the same or another similar great office farm wrote something else on a piece of paper. The man met the other man, or vice-versa, and words were spoken about what was written on the pieces of paper. Eventually one of them threatened to burn the whole pile of paper down and the other relented.

Things would have proceeded in this manner endlessly, seeing how the job each man was hired to do in the great office farm was specifically to write things on paper at odds with the things the others wrote on the same paper. Now and again one man would get angry, bring a flamethrower to work and burn as much paper and as many of the other men as he managed before they caught up with him and sent him away. This produced no visible change, because the great office farm being specifically organised for the purpose of pointlessness, it simply replaced all the individual pieces of paper and their attendant pushers -- a flamethrower can only burn things, not roles.

Eventually one man understood the reals/ideals dichotomy, and set about to destroy the very roles instead. He persuaded everyone else to go home, and was left alone in the dimly lit once-great office farm to write on the paper whatever the fuck he damn well pleases and not have anyone haggling with him and gnawing at his thing. Supposedly this approach works better here than previously, because while hyenas are actual things, abstract dances of imaginary roles are not actual things.

The perspectives for the future of mankind remain ever doubtful.

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Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Saturday, 10 June, Year 9 d.Tr.

The story of the scared slut.

So I took a girl to the airport. For a half hour while we were doing airport stuff, this slut circled me at regular intervals from a safe distance with a determined insistence rarely seen in inept Argentina.

She wasn't bad, as far as sluts go. A little short, maybe 1.70, but nicely tonedi, nice tits, nice legs, decent ass, altogether stripper fare. Her face bore testimony to something in the vein of severe sunburn, but otherwise the osature was constructed pleasantly enough. She was fuckable, in a word.

Besides a dusty Jennifer-blonde hairdo she donned the world's sorriest collection of rags. To wit : a tired and worn pair of cutoffs, the sort of item that one can only acquire through reviewing the garbage discarded behind her place of work ; a black top consisting of a piece in front and a gauzy back with (I kid you not!) two inch tall skulls interspersed ; twenty dollar sneakers. She pushed around a cart supporting one pink hardshell suitcase, another indistinct bag atop and a third smaller one on top of the second. Everything in her equipage screamed desperation, and in fairness one can't begrudge a local girl in that sorry state the attempt. She's working out, she's trying to catch the eye of foreign devils where those are to be found, what more can be asked ?

So as we were done and walking indistinctly towards a cafe, she crossed her perihelion and I said to my girl, "let's follow her". We did. She put the best strut in her walk, shaking her butt every step, and we followed. She noticed we're following, and talking about her, within three paces (not that it was hard). She didn't turn, but she did keep looking to the side to catch us in reflection, so it was prety obvious. She kept going. She never turned. Because Argentina is operated by Argentines (soberania!) and they are rank imbeciles (haymasfuturo!) their airport is a flat rectangle with unevenly distributed user flow. There's a very distinct gradient, from the epicenter where everyone mills to the edges where nobody goes, the sad macula of organizational ineptitude. She kept going. We went past the last guards standing idly about, leaving the last of random confused civillians long behind. She kept going. She wouldn't turn. She was coming against the wall. She kept going.

Eventually she turned, and went... into the bathroom. That's right, random slut that spent half an hour circling me, in evident distress, RAN OFF TO THE LITTLE GIRL'S ROOM. We laughed at her and moved on, trying to digest the experience. My girl proposed that I'm broadly correct, she was baiting, but she simply never encountered this situation where she ends up followed by a guy who already has a woman there who is apparently willing to participate. So she froze and regressed, to being 12.

I'm vaguely unpersuaded by the theory. The woman was well in her 30s. Her body carried the evident marks of intensive, deliberate, significant effort expended with clear sexual goals, and it carried them abundantly. It can not be possible that by that age, in her circumstance, she hasn't eaten plenty of cunt. My girl disagreed, "plenty of girls never had any". Her sample is probably less biased than mine. Still... Really ?!

The form stands ready to take your take on the matter and convey it to me for my edification. Thank you.

PS,

———The tone, which is to say the quality of musculature, is a very important consideration, yes ? [↩]

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Category: Zsilnic

Wednesday, 01 March, Year 9 d.Tr.

The story of the little shit

This article was originally published back in 2011, as Povestea unui cicacel

Back in the days of childhood we "had fights" or in other words found ourselves in a conflictual state with some kids from another condom-inium.

Declared by the traditional "get the fuck back to your condom(inium)"i used by both camps every time the occasion demanded it and reaching incandescence when I fooled them that "some guys from the construction yard are coming to inspect whether kids stole the pipesii and therefore best they hide such (right here) and run away lest they're caught. After which the poor darlings were left without their pipes.iii A quite notable haul, as the asses and thieves of kids at that other condominium had really cool pipes.

And after this we of course fortified our space in snow once Winter came, and spent day after day playing Diablo OOO around the half-frozen walls, wet to the very bone in the chilling winds of Cluj, which may not be Siberian in nature but that doesn't make them warm either. And we all died of colds and assorted sufferances with the exception of those of us who somehow survived to the age of writing blogs on which to publish something more interesting than what latest interactions with authority manifested as the ticket checker or town hall parking clerk we've had on our schedule. But let's not digress.

A kid, rather maginal in the society of preschool kids, aiming in his turn at a more respectable hunk of centrality started recounting, after we had repelled a dastardly assault of the enemyiv how he threw a little shit!!! and hit one of them!!!

But... how did you grab it ?

Well no, it was frozen where he grabbed it.

So if it was frozen... you've basically thrown a rock or something, what difference does it make it was a little shit. And moreover, how did you even manage to know its substance ?v

No, no, it was unfrozen on the part he didn't grab it by.

Nobody went into a period of oioioioing-boioioioing as it'd have been right and proper, given that such is the manifestation of small kids, and we even if not necessarily old enough such as to for instance go to school or such, nevertheless were old enough so as to not do such things (except if you're a girl). But neither did anyone believe him, and his heroic as well as risky and biohazardous exploit passed unrewarded by the public eye.

I'm yet left with a regret, however, which is to say that if the kid had the presence to say yes! it was a little shit that had congealed in such a manner as to have a handle on one side, under the snow, whence I grabbed it, as well as a brissant coat in the outside, relatively thin, allowing it to fly as any solid object but nevertheless to also spread on impact diarrhea one square mile around, and bad diarrhea at that, of yoghurt with beer and pinworms inside, superdisgusting. And with tapeworms. And it also had some cuts on the surface in a squarish pattern, like for isntance from having been run over by a tyre at some point. AND I DESTROYED THEM!!!!1

It'd have been pretty cool, and I confess I'd have liked the guy.

Back then, when I wasn't yet seven and we still had fights with the enemies from across the road. Then I'd have liked the guy. Today, people over thirty doing this dumb shit on blogs as a sort of tardy compensation for having missed the opportunity to impress me thirty years ago, and with that grab hold on a heftier chunk of centrality in the society of children aged thirty and over...

What can I tell you. It's too late, what. Get the fuck out of here.

———I've no idea how well spread geographically was this usage, possibly it only functioned in an area delimited by "whence you can see your home" -- this being the more expressly stated or more subtly implicit limit of the independent existence of the preschool kid in communist Romania -- but during my boyhood "to caramba" was a verb, and it worked not just in the imperative, "Yo caramba!" ie get lost, but even in perfect constructions like "yo, caramba-ize these back to their... spawngrounds", heard by my very own ears as directed to an older kid (yes, well, there were kids of all sizes, what) in the sense of chasing away the same-age enemy element. Because "they won't let us be".

It's not clear whence it comes from, but I might take note that at the time some cartoons with Speedy Gonzalez were playing on TV, whom as you well recall "ay caramba!" and so it's entirely possible given that afterwards followed skirmishes. Caramba being a minced oath, if you're curious, it really stands for carajo. [↩]A kind of Pexal piping, used by the adults to maintain in prefab elements the running lines for electric wires and by the children to project their nascent desires into the butts of girls in the shape of a paper cone. A sharp paper cone. If she doesn't hurt what can we claim to have done ?! [↩]A pipe meant the blowtube quite specifically for all kids of the time. It was a major childhood activity, the making of paper cone and the blowing them at enemies, occupying I would guess no less than 2-300 hours annually, and producing now and again worse paper covering of the neighbourhood than you've ever seen for any party or celebration. The quality, complexity and sheer luxuriant elite quality of the blowpipes themselves was a major component of kid social status in kid society (which did not include any girls as a matter of principle). [↩]For reals, have you ever seen an attack otherwise than dastardly put up by an enemy worthy of that name ? [↩]There's a lot of Romanian humor on this topic, such as the two policemen who encounter a piece of shit on their beat, have a debate as to its nature, end up tasting it and conclude happily that their governmental diligences prevented their stepping in it. Which is exactly, but I do mean exactly what government is and what government does, ever since it was invented and for as long as two idiots willing to taste shit to avoid possibly stepping in it can somewhere be still found. [↩]

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Category: Lifespiel

Friday, 20 October, Year 9 d.Tr.