Monday, December 21, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
The Trials of Peyote, Part 3 of 3: The Passion of The Wagga
The Wagga, the Indian shaman known as He Who Passes Much Wind, and your humble Novantor were sitting around a fire, inside a teepee… in the middle of the desert.
“How long does this stuff take to work?”
“Patience, Wagga. The peyote is not intrinsically good or evil, nor does it follow any set timeframe. It will tell you when you are ready,” the shaman explained.
“I like alcohol better,” I muttered. “I know exactly what to expect and it never talks back.”
Your Novanator knew He Who Passes Much Wind was full of shit. I read up a little on the Divine Cactus before we left. Peyote usually takes about a half hour after consumption to start working. There wasn’t some mystical mumbo-jumbo behind it—it just got you really fucked up.
Now, six to 10 buttons from the plant usually produces the desired effect, but for some fucked up reason The Wagga and I decided to take double that amount… just because we dared each other to.
It was not the wisest idea.
25 minutes after we took the drug, The Wagga began to hold his stomach.
“I feel sick, Nova-mon… like I just gravity bonged an eighth of skunk weed!”
My crazy Jamaican friend keeled over and started making strange gurgling sounds. I reached over and pulled him back up off the ground.
“Get a hold of yourself!”
“I gotta puke, mon!”
The Wagga raced towards the open flap on the teepee and stuck his head outside. He regurgitated a mess of jalapeno poppers and nachos that had been sitting in his stomach since morning. The smell was thankfully released into the desert air, killing only a small prairie dog that was nearby.
“It is good that he vomits,” He Who Passes Much Wind said to me. “It is a cathartic purging of demons. His body and mind will be pure for the journey.”
“The journey into what?” I asked.
The shaman smiled.
“Into the Novaverse.”
It was right then that the peyote kicked in. I started feeling light-headed and then my mind began floating away from my body. It was like a mescaline dream as I drifted up into space and through the atmosphere. I saw the Earth tumble away. The stars swirled by me as your humble Novanator flew past Mars and into the asteroid belt.
I slowed down and was able to swim the celestial seas towards a large rock the size of bus. It was on this mass of primordial elements that I saw The Wagga trying to smoke a chunk of white rocks he had picked off of the surface.
As he finished inhaling he turned around. He laughed as I landed next to him.
“Nova-mon, this shit is making me see stars!”
“Wagga, we are in the middle of space. Stars are everywhere.”
“No way, mon. How the fuck did we get here?” he asked.
“It must’ve been the peyote!”
It was then that the space around us started to fold. The black backdrop with pinhole stars turned into a bright blue sky. The asteroid expanded underneath our feet, transforming into the Earth…
But this was no Earth we had ever seen before. The land stretched out for miles. The air was clear and there was no smell of industry or gas fumes. It was a paradise, green with life and buzzing with energy.
A small stone dwelling was near a garden by the side of the road. 12 black men dressed in strange robes stood outside the building, beckoning us to come over.
“What the fuck is this all about, Wagga?”
“We seem to have traveled back in time, before the white man took over and done wrecked the world!”
We made our way down the road towards the group of men. I knew The Wagga and I were both just really fucked up on peyote and none of what was happening was real… but fuck if it didn’t feel like we had been transported back to some ancient land. I wondered how it all came to be, and why The Wagga and I were experiencing the exact same thing.
The men welcomed us as brothers and directed us into the dwelling. Before us a long table was set up with many chairs. Food and drink were in abundance.
“Brother Wagga, this feast is in your honor!” one of the men proclaimed.
“How do you know my name?” The Wagga asked.
“Have you lost your mind? You are The Wagga, the One Who Can Smoke More Than Others. We are your disciples. We follow your doctrines and spread the word to the people,” the man explained.
“Word,” another disciple confirmed.
“What the black?!” The Wagga exclaimed.
The head disciple took a good look at your Novanator.
“Who is this, Wagga?”
“This is my good friend, mon. His name is Mr. Nova.”
There was a dead silence as the disciples stared at me with wide-eyed wonder.
“We have heard of The Master of the Technique, but we never dreamed we would meet him in person. My name is Johnson, and I am pleased to meet you.”
“You have heard of me? Have you read my column Nova Style?”
The men laughed.
“Of course we have! The Novaverse is expansive. We are able to enter it after we partake in the Sticky Icky and have been able to procure some of your columns. But for some reason many of them have been hidden from us,” Johnson said.
“Yes, Mr. Nova, an evil force seeks to have your words destroyed,” another disciple told me.
“My words? Destroyed?”
I wondered why my columns had warranted the attention of evil? What was I to do? Who was behind it all? I soon realized, however, that I would have to find out another time, for the feast was about to begin.
It was a spread the likes of which your Novanator hadn’t seen since he gained V.I.P. status at that casino in Vegas. There were assorted meats, dates, wines and a wooden keg of…
“Beer! Sweet beer I have found you!”
I ran to the keg and started drinking directly from the tap.
“Yes, we learned how to brew beer from your columns,” Johnson explained.
“We also gleaned how to speak English as well!” another cavorted.
I gulped down the lager. I then ran to the table to devour some food.
“This is great!” I said biting down on a chunk of lamb. I paused and looked around. “Where are the nachos, though?”
Johnson grew grim.
“We have not found a way to correctly reproduce your beloved nachos. We have tried time and time again, but we only end up puking and getting gas,” he said.
“No, my new friend, that sounds like you’re actually getting it right!”
The Wagga was getting antsy. He pulled me aside.
“This is my feast, Nova-mon. Stop horning in on my disciples!” he said.
“I’m sorry, it is just nice to have some fans.”
“But they worship me!”
“You’re so right, exalted one!” I laughed.
The Wagga got all quiet and pissed off.
“Ok, I’ll play along,” I said.
“Thanks, mon.”
We went back to the feast and sat down to eat.
It was a raucous time. Food and drink were devoured. The disciples praised The Wagga for his many exploits and passed around a four-foot tall bong in honor.
At one point one of the disciples had to leave.
“Where are you going, Judacris?” Johnson asked.
“I… I forgot something at the crib. I’ll be right back!” Judacris said as he hastened his pace and exited out the door.
“Strange,” Johnson remarked, “Judacris never missed an orgy before.”
“Orgy?!” The Wagga and I exclaimed in unison.
I was worried that we had stumbled unto some perverted sex cult, and that we would be made sacrifices to their sick Devil God! But my fears were put to rest when the Johnson shouted out loud a sentence that makes the hearts of grown men dance:
“Bring on the bitches!”
At that moment 100 women entered the room. They were beautiful, Nubian creatures with long, black, flowing hair and supple bodies ready for sex. There was only one problem…
As I pulled down one of the girl’s dresses I discovered immediately that her bush was overgrown.
“What the fuck!” I exclaimed. “Where is your vagina, woman?”
The young lady shrugged here shoulders.
I looked over and saw Johnson banging a Friend With Benefits from behind as she lapped the juices from another girl’s hairy beaver. I got his attention and pointed towards the mound full of pubic hair in front of me.
“Johnson, why can’t I see her precious taco?” I asked in disbelief.
“We tried to convince them that sweet shaven snatch was better, Nova, but they wouldn’t listen. Looks like it is going to take 2,000 years for these bitches to come around,” he answered while pounding away on the girl.
I was horrified. I never—and I mean NEVER—bang a chick out (except for when I have to face the challenge of the Grim Reaper) unless she is smooth and clean. But if it meant I was going to help speed up the pace of shaving evolution, I decided I would do the best I could to tag as many ladies as possible during the orgy.
I focused on their large melons rather than their unsightly nether regions and got the job done.
After about an hour, Judacris arrived. He stood in the doorway with no one paying any attention to him; after all—all of us were busy!
“There he is!” Judacris said, pointing towards The Wagga.
The Wagga was face deep in a mound of female pubic hair. He looked up with a surprised expression on his face.
Suddenly, Judacris and a group of Roman soldiers entered the room.
“Break it up! Break it up! Seize their savior at once!” one of the Romans said, pushing apart people engaged in sex acts.
“We just want The Wagga,” Judacris explained as he moved forward through the crowd. And I realized what had happened: Judacris had betrayed The Wagga, notifying the Roman authorities of his revolutionary gospel. And now, The Wagga must die on a cross for all mankind.
What Judacris and the soldiers didn’t count on was that The Wagga had to run from the authorities on many occasions before, and had it down to a science. Within three seconds he was up, sprinting butt-naked out of the building and into the woods. “Fuck you all, you Roman honky muthafuckers!” The Wagga shouted at the crowd. “Mel Gibson can kiss my black ass!”
“After him!”
I realized that we had to get out of this crazy place and back to our own time…
…and then the peyote kicked into high gear.
Everything went fuzzy after that. Events shifted, happening in random order and at a lightning fast rate. All your Novanator can remember from that explosion in time is seeing The Wagga walk through the streets carrying a 10-foot tall bong on his back with a crown on his head made from a chronic plant. He was pushed up a hill and forced to smoke from the gargantuan device. The crowds cursed at him from below, throwing rocks at him and…
Then I woke up.
I was back in the desert, lying on the ground next to a dead prairie dog.
“Aw, poor little guy…” I said.
I came to my senses and started digging a hole to give the animal a proper burial.
In the distance I heard The Wagga scream. He jumped up from the ground and started running towards me, still completely naked.
“Nova, help me, mon! These people are trying to smoke me to death!”
“Wagga, calm down, the peyote has worn off.”
He stopped running and looked down at himself.
“Why am I naked?” he asked.
“You must have taken your clothes off during the orgy.”
“Was it real?”
“I don’t know.” I looked around. “Where is He Who Passes Much Wind?”
The teepee was all that remained from our vision. Thankfully the Indian Shaman didn’t steal our wallets. Everything was left in a nice pile next to the entranceway.
“He must have left last night, probably to help someone else understand,” The Wagga said.
“Either that, or he thought we were crazy and high-tailed it out.”
“No matter, mon. I just hope I get the chance to thank him one day.”
The Wagga and I buried the prairie dog together and headed home…
“How long does this stuff take to work?”
“Patience, Wagga. The peyote is not intrinsically good or evil, nor does it follow any set timeframe. It will tell you when you are ready,” the shaman explained.
“I like alcohol better,” I muttered. “I know exactly what to expect and it never talks back.”
Your Novanator knew He Who Passes Much Wind was full of shit. I read up a little on the Divine Cactus before we left. Peyote usually takes about a half hour after consumption to start working. There wasn’t some mystical mumbo-jumbo behind it—it just got you really fucked up.
Now, six to 10 buttons from the plant usually produces the desired effect, but for some fucked up reason The Wagga and I decided to take double that amount… just because we dared each other to.
It was not the wisest idea.
25 minutes after we took the drug, The Wagga began to hold his stomach.
“I feel sick, Nova-mon… like I just gravity bonged an eighth of skunk weed!”
My crazy Jamaican friend keeled over and started making strange gurgling sounds. I reached over and pulled him back up off the ground.
“Get a hold of yourself!”
“I gotta puke, mon!”
The Wagga raced towards the open flap on the teepee and stuck his head outside. He regurgitated a mess of jalapeno poppers and nachos that had been sitting in his stomach since morning. The smell was thankfully released into the desert air, killing only a small prairie dog that was nearby.
“It is good that he vomits,” He Who Passes Much Wind said to me. “It is a cathartic purging of demons. His body and mind will be pure for the journey.”
“The journey into what?” I asked.
The shaman smiled.
“Into the Novaverse.”
It was right then that the peyote kicked in. I started feeling light-headed and then my mind began floating away from my body. It was like a mescaline dream as I drifted up into space and through the atmosphere. I saw the Earth tumble away. The stars swirled by me as your humble Novanator flew past Mars and into the asteroid belt.
I slowed down and was able to swim the celestial seas towards a large rock the size of bus. It was on this mass of primordial elements that I saw The Wagga trying to smoke a chunk of white rocks he had picked off of the surface.
As he finished inhaling he turned around. He laughed as I landed next to him.
“Nova-mon, this shit is making me see stars!”
“Wagga, we are in the middle of space. Stars are everywhere.”
“No way, mon. How the fuck did we get here?” he asked.
“It must’ve been the peyote!”
It was then that the space around us started to fold. The black backdrop with pinhole stars turned into a bright blue sky. The asteroid expanded underneath our feet, transforming into the Earth…
But this was no Earth we had ever seen before. The land stretched out for miles. The air was clear and there was no smell of industry or gas fumes. It was a paradise, green with life and buzzing with energy.
A small stone dwelling was near a garden by the side of the road. 12 black men dressed in strange robes stood outside the building, beckoning us to come over.
“What the fuck is this all about, Wagga?”
“We seem to have traveled back in time, before the white man took over and done wrecked the world!”
We made our way down the road towards the group of men. I knew The Wagga and I were both just really fucked up on peyote and none of what was happening was real… but fuck if it didn’t feel like we had been transported back to some ancient land. I wondered how it all came to be, and why The Wagga and I were experiencing the exact same thing.
The men welcomed us as brothers and directed us into the dwelling. Before us a long table was set up with many chairs. Food and drink were in abundance.
“Brother Wagga, this feast is in your honor!” one of the men proclaimed.
“How do you know my name?” The Wagga asked.
“Have you lost your mind? You are The Wagga, the One Who Can Smoke More Than Others. We are your disciples. We follow your doctrines and spread the word to the people,” the man explained.
“Word,” another disciple confirmed.
“What the black?!” The Wagga exclaimed.
The head disciple took a good look at your Novanator.
“Who is this, Wagga?”
“This is my good friend, mon. His name is Mr. Nova.”
There was a dead silence as the disciples stared at me with wide-eyed wonder.
“We have heard of The Master of the Technique, but we never dreamed we would meet him in person. My name is Johnson, and I am pleased to meet you.”
“You have heard of me? Have you read my column Nova Style?”
The men laughed.
“Of course we have! The Novaverse is expansive. We are able to enter it after we partake in the Sticky Icky and have been able to procure some of your columns. But for some reason many of them have been hidden from us,” Johnson said.
“Yes, Mr. Nova, an evil force seeks to have your words destroyed,” another disciple told me.
“My words? Destroyed?”
I wondered why my columns had warranted the attention of evil? What was I to do? Who was behind it all? I soon realized, however, that I would have to find out another time, for the feast was about to begin.
It was a spread the likes of which your Novanator hadn’t seen since he gained V.I.P. status at that casino in Vegas. There were assorted meats, dates, wines and a wooden keg of…
“Beer! Sweet beer I have found you!”
I ran to the keg and started drinking directly from the tap.
“Yes, we learned how to brew beer from your columns,” Johnson explained.
“We also gleaned how to speak English as well!” another cavorted.
I gulped down the lager. I then ran to the table to devour some food.
“This is great!” I said biting down on a chunk of lamb. I paused and looked around. “Where are the nachos, though?”
Johnson grew grim.
“We have not found a way to correctly reproduce your beloved nachos. We have tried time and time again, but we only end up puking and getting gas,” he said.
“No, my new friend, that sounds like you’re actually getting it right!”
The Wagga was getting antsy. He pulled me aside.
“This is my feast, Nova-mon. Stop horning in on my disciples!” he said.
“I’m sorry, it is just nice to have some fans.”
“But they worship me!”
“You’re so right, exalted one!” I laughed.
The Wagga got all quiet and pissed off.
“Ok, I’ll play along,” I said.
“Thanks, mon.”
We went back to the feast and sat down to eat.
It was a raucous time. Food and drink were devoured. The disciples praised The Wagga for his many exploits and passed around a four-foot tall bong in honor.
At one point one of the disciples had to leave.
“Where are you going, Judacris?” Johnson asked.
“I… I forgot something at the crib. I’ll be right back!” Judacris said as he hastened his pace and exited out the door.
“Strange,” Johnson remarked, “Judacris never missed an orgy before.”
“Orgy?!” The Wagga and I exclaimed in unison.
I was worried that we had stumbled unto some perverted sex cult, and that we would be made sacrifices to their sick Devil God! But my fears were put to rest when the Johnson shouted out loud a sentence that makes the hearts of grown men dance:
“Bring on the bitches!”
At that moment 100 women entered the room. They were beautiful, Nubian creatures with long, black, flowing hair and supple bodies ready for sex. There was only one problem…
As I pulled down one of the girl’s dresses I discovered immediately that her bush was overgrown.
“What the fuck!” I exclaimed. “Where is your vagina, woman?”
The young lady shrugged here shoulders.
I looked over and saw Johnson banging a Friend With Benefits from behind as she lapped the juices from another girl’s hairy beaver. I got his attention and pointed towards the mound full of pubic hair in front of me.
“Johnson, why can’t I see her precious taco?” I asked in disbelief.
“We tried to convince them that sweet shaven snatch was better, Nova, but they wouldn’t listen. Looks like it is going to take 2,000 years for these bitches to come around,” he answered while pounding away on the girl.
I was horrified. I never—and I mean NEVER—bang a chick out (except for when I have to face the challenge of the Grim Reaper) unless she is smooth and clean. But if it meant I was going to help speed up the pace of shaving evolution, I decided I would do the best I could to tag as many ladies as possible during the orgy.
I focused on their large melons rather than their unsightly nether regions and got the job done.
After about an hour, Judacris arrived. He stood in the doorway with no one paying any attention to him; after all—all of us were busy!
“There he is!” Judacris said, pointing towards The Wagga.
The Wagga was face deep in a mound of female pubic hair. He looked up with a surprised expression on his face.
Suddenly, Judacris and a group of Roman soldiers entered the room.
“Break it up! Break it up! Seize their savior at once!” one of the Romans said, pushing apart people engaged in sex acts.
“We just want The Wagga,” Judacris explained as he moved forward through the crowd. And I realized what had happened: Judacris had betrayed The Wagga, notifying the Roman authorities of his revolutionary gospel. And now, The Wagga must die on a cross for all mankind.
What Judacris and the soldiers didn’t count on was that The Wagga had to run from the authorities on many occasions before, and had it down to a science. Within three seconds he was up, sprinting butt-naked out of the building and into the woods. “Fuck you all, you Roman honky muthafuckers!” The Wagga shouted at the crowd. “Mel Gibson can kiss my black ass!”
“After him!”
I realized that we had to get out of this crazy place and back to our own time…
…and then the peyote kicked into high gear.
Everything went fuzzy after that. Events shifted, happening in random order and at a lightning fast rate. All your Novanator can remember from that explosion in time is seeing The Wagga walk through the streets carrying a 10-foot tall bong on his back with a crown on his head made from a chronic plant. He was pushed up a hill and forced to smoke from the gargantuan device. The crowds cursed at him from below, throwing rocks at him and…
Then I woke up.
I was back in the desert, lying on the ground next to a dead prairie dog.
“Aw, poor little guy…” I said.
I came to my senses and started digging a hole to give the animal a proper burial.
In the distance I heard The Wagga scream. He jumped up from the ground and started running towards me, still completely naked.
“Nova, help me, mon! These people are trying to smoke me to death!”
“Wagga, calm down, the peyote has worn off.”
He stopped running and looked down at himself.
“Why am I naked?” he asked.
“You must have taken your clothes off during the orgy.”
“Was it real?”
“I don’t know.” I looked around. “Where is He Who Passes Much Wind?”
The teepee was all that remained from our vision. Thankfully the Indian Shaman didn’t steal our wallets. Everything was left in a nice pile next to the entranceway.
“He must have left last night, probably to help someone else understand,” The Wagga said.
“Either that, or he thought we were crazy and high-tailed it out.”
“No matter, mon. I just hope I get the chance to thank him one day.”
The Wagga and I buried the prairie dog together and headed home…
Thursday, May 14, 2009
The Trials of Peyote, Part 2 of 3: Varmint Man
After two days of driving and two nights of hard drinking, The Wagga and I crossed the Texas border in search of the mysterious shaman known only as:
HE WHO PASSES MUCH WIND
We made our way through the piney woods, across the prairies and lakes, and then into the South Texas Plains. The Nova Wagon was purring like a newly-juiced vibrator in one of those German lesbo films I used to download in my college dorm. The Wagga and I finally stopped somewhere just east of Laredo to fuel up on gas.
The gas station was run down, but had some old copies of High Society I missed. The Wagga grabbed the key to the bathroom and went back to take a shit. I picked the prized issues of porn up from the owner and asked the old guy if he knew where to find the reclusive shaman who would help us pass The Trials of Peyote.
“What’cha takin’ ‘bout young feller?” the wrinkly-faced varmint of a man said.
“My friend and I are seeking a man known only as He Who Passes Much Wind.”
Varmint Man scratched his crotch and spit some tobacco on the floor behind the counter.
“Don’t know nothing ‘bout him.”
I peered over and saw a copy of The Doors of Perception lying next to some scratched off lottery tickets. I pointed the book out to Varmint Man.
“What the fuck is a geezer like you doing with a copy of Aldous Huxley’s masterpiece?”
Varmint Man’s beady eyes squinted and focused on me. He then shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know what’cha talkin’ ‘bout. Now git the fuck out of here ‘fore I call the local authorities.”
Wagga returned from taking a shit and handed the key back to Varmint Man.
“Here you go old-mon. I wouldn’t go back there for awhile, if I were you.”
Varmint Man picked up his phone and started dialing a number. I grabbed the receiver from his hands and set it back down.
“There will be no need for that.”
I handed Varmint Man a $20 bill.
“This a bribe, son?”
“It is payment,” your humble Novanator said. “All we want is to know where to find He Who Passes Much Wind.”
“I ain’t telling no punk,” Varmint Man said. “And I certainly ain’t telling no nigger.”
The Wagga’s face turned the brightest shade of purplish-pink. He was about to jump over the counter and kill the old man. Thankfully, the door to the station opened and a voice of reason walked through.
“Be tranquil, my friends,” a proud Native American elder proclaimed as he entered the room.
We knew immediately who it was.
“He Who Passes Much Wind!” The Wagga and I exclaimed in unison.
“Yes. I found my way here after a particularly rank odor exuded from the exhaust fans. The stench permeated the air and called me to this place.”
“The crap of The Wagga!” I said.
“Nova-mon, it must’ve been all dem Jalapeño Poppers I done had in Louisiana! I had no idea that my shit had such power.”
“You’re a fucking superhero!”
“Yes, my friend. You have the ability to clear rooms and fill them at the same time,” He Who Passes Much Wind explained.
The Wagga was baffled. He looked past the beer cooler and back down the hall at the bathroom door.
“I had no idea, mon. My shit has the power to summon Indian Shamans. I wonder what else it could do? Perhaps my shit can heal the sick, levitate the dead, and eliminate acne?”
“Well one thing it better not do is clog up my cotton-pickin’ toilet, you fucking nig—”
But before Varmint Man could finish his sentence The Wagga grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him over the counter. The irate Jamaican dragged the wrinkly racist back to the bathroom.
“THAT’S RIGHT YOU DUMB CRACKER! I DONE CLOGGED YOUR TOLIET UP WITH THE SHIT OF A DARKIE! HOW YOU ENJOY EATING IT, YOU BAG OF BONES MUTHAFUCKER!? OPEN WIDE!”
He Who Passes Much Wind and I listened to The Wagga screaming at Varmint Man (while he was presumably pushing the old man’s face down into the toilet bowl). After things grew quiet I inquired about the sacred drug we sought.
“You seek enlightenment and you will find it with peyote,” He Who Passes Much Wind said.
“I think we need some,” I replied, pointing towards The Wagga as he emerged from the bathroom.
“He is alive,” my friend assured us. “I shoved my own shit into his racial epithet slurring mouth!”
I was amazed that the kid could get so angry but if I was in his position I could see myself doing the same thing. Varmint Man had it coming. I was more amazed, however, that The Wagga knew the meaning of the word “epithet.”
He Who Passes Much Wind directed us towards the door.
“Come now, we must head out into the desert. The peyote awaits… as does the answers to many questions.”
We all hopped in the Nova Wagon (The Wagga called shotgun, so He Who Passes Much Wind had to sit in the back—thus bringing upon the Jamaican a heap of bad karma). The road into the desert was ahead of us. Behind us, Varmint Man was cursing our existence and cleaning shit out of his false teeth.
The secrets of peyote were about to unfold, in a way neither The Wagga nor your humble Novanator could possibly imagine…
HE WHO PASSES MUCH WIND
We made our way through the piney woods, across the prairies and lakes, and then into the South Texas Plains. The Nova Wagon was purring like a newly-juiced vibrator in one of those German lesbo films I used to download in my college dorm. The Wagga and I finally stopped somewhere just east of Laredo to fuel up on gas.
The gas station was run down, but had some old copies of High Society I missed. The Wagga grabbed the key to the bathroom and went back to take a shit. I picked the prized issues of porn up from the owner and asked the old guy if he knew where to find the reclusive shaman who would help us pass The Trials of Peyote.
“What’cha takin’ ‘bout young feller?” the wrinkly-faced varmint of a man said.
“My friend and I are seeking a man known only as He Who Passes Much Wind.”
Varmint Man scratched his crotch and spit some tobacco on the floor behind the counter.
“Don’t know nothing ‘bout him.”
I peered over and saw a copy of The Doors of Perception lying next to some scratched off lottery tickets. I pointed the book out to Varmint Man.
“What the fuck is a geezer like you doing with a copy of Aldous Huxley’s masterpiece?”
Varmint Man’s beady eyes squinted and focused on me. He then shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know what’cha talkin’ ‘bout. Now git the fuck out of here ‘fore I call the local authorities.”
Wagga returned from taking a shit and handed the key back to Varmint Man.
“Here you go old-mon. I wouldn’t go back there for awhile, if I were you.”
Varmint Man picked up his phone and started dialing a number. I grabbed the receiver from his hands and set it back down.
“There will be no need for that.”
I handed Varmint Man a $20 bill.
“This a bribe, son?”
“It is payment,” your humble Novanator said. “All we want is to know where to find He Who Passes Much Wind.”
“I ain’t telling no punk,” Varmint Man said. “And I certainly ain’t telling no nigger.”
The Wagga’s face turned the brightest shade of purplish-pink. He was about to jump over the counter and kill the old man. Thankfully, the door to the station opened and a voice of reason walked through.
“Be tranquil, my friends,” a proud Native American elder proclaimed as he entered the room.
We knew immediately who it was.
“He Who Passes Much Wind!” The Wagga and I exclaimed in unison.
“Yes. I found my way here after a particularly rank odor exuded from the exhaust fans. The stench permeated the air and called me to this place.”
“The crap of The Wagga!” I said.
“Nova-mon, it must’ve been all dem Jalapeño Poppers I done had in Louisiana! I had no idea that my shit had such power.”
“You’re a fucking superhero!”
“Yes, my friend. You have the ability to clear rooms and fill them at the same time,” He Who Passes Much Wind explained.
The Wagga was baffled. He looked past the beer cooler and back down the hall at the bathroom door.
“I had no idea, mon. My shit has the power to summon Indian Shamans. I wonder what else it could do? Perhaps my shit can heal the sick, levitate the dead, and eliminate acne?”
“Well one thing it better not do is clog up my cotton-pickin’ toilet, you fucking nig—”
But before Varmint Man could finish his sentence The Wagga grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him over the counter. The irate Jamaican dragged the wrinkly racist back to the bathroom.
“THAT’S RIGHT YOU DUMB CRACKER! I DONE CLOGGED YOUR TOLIET UP WITH THE SHIT OF A DARKIE! HOW YOU ENJOY EATING IT, YOU BAG OF BONES MUTHAFUCKER!? OPEN WIDE!”
He Who Passes Much Wind and I listened to The Wagga screaming at Varmint Man (while he was presumably pushing the old man’s face down into the toilet bowl). After things grew quiet I inquired about the sacred drug we sought.
“You seek enlightenment and you will find it with peyote,” He Who Passes Much Wind said.
“I think we need some,” I replied, pointing towards The Wagga as he emerged from the bathroom.
“He is alive,” my friend assured us. “I shoved my own shit into his racial epithet slurring mouth!”
I was amazed that the kid could get so angry but if I was in his position I could see myself doing the same thing. Varmint Man had it coming. I was more amazed, however, that The Wagga knew the meaning of the word “epithet.”
He Who Passes Much Wind directed us towards the door.
“Come now, we must head out into the desert. The peyote awaits… as does the answers to many questions.”
We all hopped in the Nova Wagon (The Wagga called shotgun, so He Who Passes Much Wind had to sit in the back—thus bringing upon the Jamaican a heap of bad karma). The road into the desert was ahead of us. Behind us, Varmint Man was cursing our existence and cleaning shit out of his false teeth.
The secrets of peyote were about to unfold, in a way neither The Wagga nor your humble Novanator could possibly imagine…
Thursday, April 30, 2009
The Trials of Peyote, Part 1 of 3: The Quest Begins
“It’s called peyote, the Divine Cactus!” The Wagga proclaimed gleefully.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about a beautiful thing, Nova-mon! A wonderful thing! Finally, after all of these years, I have discovered a drug that has yet to be exploited by my favorite hip hop groups!”
The Wagga and I were splitting a pitcher of beer and a plate of nachos at a local watering hole. I was beginning to wonder if all of the dope he had smoked in his life was starting to affect his brain. He was totally fried and spouting out facts about the desert plant like there was no tomorrow!
“Did you know peyote is indigenous to Texas and Mexico, Nova-mon? And did you know that the famous writer, Aldous Huxley, tried some of that shit? After he done finished hallucinating, he proclaimed ‘This is how one ought to see, how things really are.’ He even wrote a book called The Doors of Perception. I read part of it, but had to use the pages when I ran out of papers to roll my chronic."
I was incredulous. How the fuck did The Wagga (not the brightest kid in the world) know the meaning of the word “indigenous?” And more importantly, how did he become so interested in a cactus with powerful hallucinogenic properties? And how did he know how to read?
“You are one crazy Jamaican muthafucker. But why peyote when there is so much good chronic going around?”
The Wagga let out a grin.
“The sticky-icky has no doubt been good to me, but sometimes I grow tired of it. I want to seek new experiences. So I asked around at my shit-ass job if anyone knew of a drug you could take that didn’t have any comedown. One skinny Mexican told me to seek out peyote—it would enlighten me and get me really fucked up all at the same time. As for side effects, he said that when the trip was over you would feel relaxed and pure.”
“Sounds nice. But I don’t know about that ‘pure’ part; your Novanator won’t ever feel clean. My jang has been inside too many feminine orifices to ever be wholesome and pure again.” All those late nights with ditzy babes, 151, and leather whips had a price, my Novanites. “But you know, I could use something to help take some stress off of my mind.”
“You have been a little uptight these days.”
“I sense that the Grim Reaper is after me again. I feel like my time is running out.”
“Shut the fuck up, Nova-mon. You the craziest cracker I know. Anyway, the Mexican also spun a tale about banging some chic out doggystyle for 30-minutes. He told me you would know what he meant.”
Ah yes, I did know.
“Good thing I got you that job, Wagga. You can learn a lot from those undocumented fry cooks. They have knowledge most Americans will never learn, as my fellow citizens feel obligated to follow stupid laws, moral edicts, and common sense that I cannot abide. Next time you see my friend Peppi, tell him I said ¡Horrale!”
The Wagga ignored my request to send best wishes to Peppi; instead he kept going on about peyote, or as it is known botanically:LOPHOPHORA WILLIAMSII. Seems the shit has been used since 1000 B.C. and was banned by Roman Catholics when they came over to the New World and subjugated the Native Americans. Stupid fucks proclaimed that peyote is evil because they believed it was designed for the “purposes of detecting thefts, of divining other happenings and foretelling future events.” And according to the self-righteous pricks, eatingpeyote was likened to an act of cannibalism. Those fucking church people never cease to piss me off.
“So Nova-mon, will you try the sacred drug with me?” The Wagga finally asked after his ten minute lecture on how the drug must be dried before consumption, either by the sun or by being baked at 250 degrees over a few hours.
“Sure, Wagga. I’ll try it.”
I was up for anything that stuck it to the Christian Fear Doctrine, and if it meant I had to take an illegal drug and hallucinate for three days straight, so be it.
“What do with have to do?” I asked.
“We have to go to Texas. There we’ll find an Indian shaman who goes by the name He Who Passes Much Wind.”
“Texas?”
I grew quiet. The Wagga became concerned.
“What be wrong with Texas, Nova-mon? They allow black people into Texas, now, don’t they? Don’t tell me I am going have to crush some cracker into powder just to get high!” The Wagga screamed while freaking out.
“No Wagga, calm down, you silly fuck! You’ll be fine! We’ve come a long way as a country. In Texas, they’ve pretty much stopped killing brothers and dragging them behind trucks. Hell, at some bars, they’ll even let you dance with a white woman without lynching your black ass.”
He let out a sigh.
“Ok, Nova-mon, so what’s the problem?”
I didn’t want to tell him what happened in Texas that one time long ago, so I took a deep breath and made the decision to support my friend.
“Ok, let’s go to Texas.”
“Sweet, Nova-mon!” the Wagga exclaimed. “Oh, by the way, my license just got suspended. A cracker redneck cop done revoked my driving privileges just because I be black. And because I was doing figure-eights on the highway while drunk. Fucking racist cops! You have to drive, mon!”
Fucking Wagga, I thought to myself.
So it was time for a road trip. The Wagga and I packed our things and hopped in the Nova Wagon in search of peyote and a mysterious shaman—who little did we know, would open up a portal to the Novaverse…
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about a beautiful thing, Nova-mon! A wonderful thing! Finally, after all of these years, I have discovered a drug that has yet to be exploited by my favorite hip hop groups!”
The Wagga and I were splitting a pitcher of beer and a plate of nachos at a local watering hole. I was beginning to wonder if all of the dope he had smoked in his life was starting to affect his brain. He was totally fried and spouting out facts about the desert plant like there was no tomorrow!
“Did you know peyote is indigenous to Texas and Mexico, Nova-mon? And did you know that the famous writer, Aldous Huxley, tried some of that shit? After he done finished hallucinating, he proclaimed ‘This is how one ought to see, how things really are.’ He even wrote a book called The Doors of Perception. I read part of it, but had to use the pages when I ran out of papers to roll my chronic."
I was incredulous. How the fuck did The Wagga (not the brightest kid in the world) know the meaning of the word “indigenous?” And more importantly, how did he become so interested in a cactus with powerful hallucinogenic properties? And how did he know how to read?
“You are one crazy Jamaican muthafucker. But why peyote when there is so much good chronic going around?”
The Wagga let out a grin.
“The sticky-icky has no doubt been good to me, but sometimes I grow tired of it. I want to seek new experiences. So I asked around at my shit-ass job if anyone knew of a drug you could take that didn’t have any comedown. One skinny Mexican told me to seek out peyote—it would enlighten me and get me really fucked up all at the same time. As for side effects, he said that when the trip was over you would feel relaxed and pure.”
“Sounds nice. But I don’t know about that ‘pure’ part; your Novanator won’t ever feel clean. My jang has been inside too many feminine orifices to ever be wholesome and pure again.” All those late nights with ditzy babes, 151, and leather whips had a price, my Novanites. “But you know, I could use something to help take some stress off of my mind.”
“You have been a little uptight these days.”
“I sense that the Grim Reaper is after me again. I feel like my time is running out.”
“Shut the fuck up, Nova-mon. You the craziest cracker I know. Anyway, the Mexican also spun a tale about banging some chic out doggystyle for 30-minutes. He told me you would know what he meant.”
Ah yes, I did know.
“Good thing I got you that job, Wagga. You can learn a lot from those undocumented fry cooks. They have knowledge most Americans will never learn, as my fellow citizens feel obligated to follow stupid laws, moral edicts, and common sense that I cannot abide. Next time you see my friend Peppi, tell him I said ¡Horrale!”
The Wagga ignored my request to send best wishes to Peppi; instead he kept going on about peyote, or as it is known botanically:LOPHOPHORA WILLIAMSII. Seems the shit has been used since 1000 B.C. and was banned by Roman Catholics when they came over to the New World and subjugated the Native Americans. Stupid fucks proclaimed that peyote is evil because they believed it was designed for the “purposes of detecting thefts, of divining other happenings and foretelling future events.” And according to the self-righteous pricks, eatingpeyote was likened to an act of cannibalism. Those fucking church people never cease to piss me off.
“So Nova-mon, will you try the sacred drug with me?” The Wagga finally asked after his ten minute lecture on how the drug must be dried before consumption, either by the sun or by being baked at 250 degrees over a few hours.
“Sure, Wagga. I’ll try it.”
I was up for anything that stuck it to the Christian Fear Doctrine, and if it meant I had to take an illegal drug and hallucinate for three days straight, so be it.
“What do with have to do?” I asked.
“We have to go to Texas. There we’ll find an Indian shaman who goes by the name He Who Passes Much Wind.”
“Texas?”
I grew quiet. The Wagga became concerned.
“What be wrong with Texas, Nova-mon? They allow black people into Texas, now, don’t they? Don’t tell me I am going have to crush some cracker into powder just to get high!” The Wagga screamed while freaking out.
“No Wagga, calm down, you silly fuck! You’ll be fine! We’ve come a long way as a country. In Texas, they’ve pretty much stopped killing brothers and dragging them behind trucks. Hell, at some bars, they’ll even let you dance with a white woman without lynching your black ass.”
He let out a sigh.
“Ok, Nova-mon, so what’s the problem?”
I didn’t want to tell him what happened in Texas that one time long ago, so I took a deep breath and made the decision to support my friend.
“Ok, let’s go to Texas.”
“Sweet, Nova-mon!” the Wagga exclaimed. “Oh, by the way, my license just got suspended. A cracker redneck cop done revoked my driving privileges just because I be black. And because I was doing figure-eights on the highway while drunk. Fucking racist cops! You have to drive, mon!”
Fucking Wagga, I thought to myself.
So it was time for a road trip. The Wagga and I packed our things and hopped in the Nova Wagon in search of peyote and a mysterious shaman—who little did we know, would open up a portal to the Novaverse…
Monday, April 20, 2009
One Thousand Dollars
Mr. Nova was going through a bad period a few years ago. It was at the height of my drinking and drug-use days, a real dark time for the Novanator. I was seeing this little 19-year-old redhead. All she cared about was getting high and trying to fuck with Mr. Nova's head. The dumb bitch thought she could destroy my life with her feminine wiles and sinister ways. Little did she know that Mr. Nova has no emotions or life left to destroy, just beliefs and memories. But still, tempt me she did—in a way so shocking and demented, I feel obligated to share with you what I experienced.
She had this identical twin sister. Imagine two red-haired, big-titted look-a-likes, cute as hell, sick and depraved! These young twins had a strange relationship with each other. It was like they were in love. They would hold hands while watching movies! They would even give each other little kisses. I have never seen anything like it before, my brothers. I know we have all read about things like this in magazines, heard stories from rock artists, dreamt about it in our most private fantasies…
But this was REAL! Maybe because they were twins, they figured that touching the other was no different than masturbating. I didn't understand the dynamics of their relationship. I didn't understand their mentality. All I knew was that me likes it. Me likes it a lot.
On one strange day, my girl and I were talking.
"So, your sister and you are very close."
"Yeah… would you pass the joint?"
"I noticed you two cuddled up together watching the Mary Kay and Ashley special. I thought that was sweet. "
"Yeah… we like to watch stuff together." She took a hit and zoned out. Then she came back to reality for a second. "You hungry, Mr. Nova?"
"Nah, I am fine. By the way, I saw you two kiss."
"You like that? You sick man."
She started laughing. A really strange, shriek-like laugh. She sounded like a cheetah getting castrated with a broken Coke bottle.
"You two have never… you know? Done… stuff with each other? "
"Fucked? No… but there was this one guy who offered my sister and me $1,000 to do each other in front of him. "
Suddenly she had my complete and undivided attention. A nuclear bomb could've exploded in the backyard and I wouldn't have moved from the sofa. " What happened?"
"He didn't actually have the money," she said.
"So… what if he did have the money? Would you have done it? "
"Oh, yeah! Hell yeah! My sister wanted to do it, too. I told her I would buy a strap on and fuck her better than anyone ever. And she likes to fuck, too. I would lick her shaved pussy and finger her until she came all over herself. Then I would bite her nipples and spank her and make sweet love to her over and over again. "
I sat there dumbfounded. This was some crazy inbred shit—and I loved it! It must be illegal as well… but y'know, when you're smoking dope on a Thursday afternoon, you really don't care about the law. I just couldn't believe she was being so matter-of-fact about fucking her sister! It was like, " I enjoy long walks on the beach, playing with puppies, opening my presents on Christmas morning, and incestuous lesbian relationships with my twin. Please pass the mashed potatoes. "
I tried to play it cool. "Well, why not do it for free—if you love her so much?"
"Oh, it would be a one time only thing. I figure if money was involved it would make it even better. But we won't do it for less than One Thousand Dollars. A girl must have her standards, Mr. Nova." Say what? Standards?! A whore is a whore. Fucking for money is fucking for money. But of course, I kept this to myself… no need to ruin our relationship by being honest. Honesty and relationships go together like fire and gasoline—one destroys the other.
The next day I went through my bank accounts. I didn't have anywhere close to $1,000… so I had to be creative. Over the next two weeks, I cashed in my government bonds and sold off some expensive items I had shoplifted over the past few years. I stole my brother's TV and sold it on eBay. I even asked for an advance from the editors at www.LastStory.com.
"Fuck off, Mr. Nova! You know we can't give you company money to spend on prostitution!" my editor said. I tried to argue with him that the money was for a column—and I'd let him watch. But the stupid prude wouldn't budge. The bastard.
At the end of two weeks I manage to borrow, steal, swipe, swindle, and leverage together one thousand dollars.
"Ok, I have it!" I told my 19-year-old redheaded girlfriend.
She was stoned. "What do you have? Chocolate? Chocolate is like, cool and stuff."
"The $1,000! Don't you remember what we talked about a few weeks ago? How you'd let me watch you fuck your sister for $1,000? "
"Oh, well my sister just got engaged a couple of days ago. I don't think she can do it anymore."
I sat there with a blank look in my eyes.
She smiled. "I am sorry… I wanted it to happen more than you did, Mr. Nova. Hee, hee! That would've been pretty cool. Ha, ha. Do you have any more pot? "
I broke up with her and went home. I never talked to her again. Last I heard she was in rehab after a bout with some bad PCP. I don't know what happened to her sister. Crazy bitches. They left me hanging on what could have been the best Mr. Nova story ever…
…Unless I can find me some triplets.
She had this identical twin sister. Imagine two red-haired, big-titted look-a-likes, cute as hell, sick and depraved! These young twins had a strange relationship with each other. It was like they were in love. They would hold hands while watching movies! They would even give each other little kisses. I have never seen anything like it before, my brothers. I know we have all read about things like this in magazines, heard stories from rock artists, dreamt about it in our most private fantasies…
But this was REAL! Maybe because they were twins, they figured that touching the other was no different than masturbating. I didn't understand the dynamics of their relationship. I didn't understand their mentality. All I knew was that me likes it. Me likes it a lot.
On one strange day, my girl and I were talking.
"So, your sister and you are very close."
"Yeah… would you pass the joint?"
"I noticed you two cuddled up together watching the Mary Kay and Ashley special. I thought that was sweet. "
"Yeah… we like to watch stuff together." She took a hit and zoned out. Then she came back to reality for a second. "You hungry, Mr. Nova?"
"Nah, I am fine. By the way, I saw you two kiss."
"You like that? You sick man."
She started laughing. A really strange, shriek-like laugh. She sounded like a cheetah getting castrated with a broken Coke bottle.
"You two have never… you know? Done… stuff with each other? "
"Fucked? No… but there was this one guy who offered my sister and me $1,000 to do each other in front of him. "
Suddenly she had my complete and undivided attention. A nuclear bomb could've exploded in the backyard and I wouldn't have moved from the sofa. " What happened?"
"He didn't actually have the money," she said.
"So… what if he did have the money? Would you have done it? "
"Oh, yeah! Hell yeah! My sister wanted to do it, too. I told her I would buy a strap on and fuck her better than anyone ever. And she likes to fuck, too. I would lick her shaved pussy and finger her until she came all over herself. Then I would bite her nipples and spank her and make sweet love to her over and over again. "
I sat there dumbfounded. This was some crazy inbred shit—and I loved it! It must be illegal as well… but y'know, when you're smoking dope on a Thursday afternoon, you really don't care about the law. I just couldn't believe she was being so matter-of-fact about fucking her sister! It was like, " I enjoy long walks on the beach, playing with puppies, opening my presents on Christmas morning, and incestuous lesbian relationships with my twin. Please pass the mashed potatoes. "
I tried to play it cool. "Well, why not do it for free—if you love her so much?"
"Oh, it would be a one time only thing. I figure if money was involved it would make it even better. But we won't do it for less than One Thousand Dollars. A girl must have her standards, Mr. Nova." Say what? Standards?! A whore is a whore. Fucking for money is fucking for money. But of course, I kept this to myself… no need to ruin our relationship by being honest. Honesty and relationships go together like fire and gasoline—one destroys the other.
The next day I went through my bank accounts. I didn't have anywhere close to $1,000… so I had to be creative. Over the next two weeks, I cashed in my government bonds and sold off some expensive items I had shoplifted over the past few years. I stole my brother's TV and sold it on eBay. I even asked for an advance from the editors at www.LastStory.com.
"Fuck off, Mr. Nova! You know we can't give you company money to spend on prostitution!" my editor said. I tried to argue with him that the money was for a column—and I'd let him watch. But the stupid prude wouldn't budge. The bastard.
At the end of two weeks I manage to borrow, steal, swipe, swindle, and leverage together one thousand dollars.
"Ok, I have it!" I told my 19-year-old redheaded girlfriend.
She was stoned. "What do you have? Chocolate? Chocolate is like, cool and stuff."
"The $1,000! Don't you remember what we talked about a few weeks ago? How you'd let me watch you fuck your sister for $1,000? "
"Oh, well my sister just got engaged a couple of days ago. I don't think she can do it anymore."
I sat there with a blank look in my eyes.
She smiled. "I am sorry… I wanted it to happen more than you did, Mr. Nova. Hee, hee! That would've been pretty cool. Ha, ha. Do you have any more pot? "
I broke up with her and went home. I never talked to her again. Last I heard she was in rehab after a bout with some bad PCP. I don't know what happened to her sister. Crazy bitches. They left me hanging on what could have been the best Mr. Nova story ever…
…Unless I can find me some triplets.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
$45: A Mr. Nova Adventure
Mr. Nova won’t pay for sex. It is not in his nature. I tried to do it (once) when I was 17. In fact, I actually handed over $100 to a prostitute in Atlantic City who looked good—but smelled like a strange combination of feces and sperm. But I couldn’t get Little Nova up for the dirty whore. My wanker doesn’t like the fact that I have to give up hard earned money for a piece of low-quality ass. Hell, with my ego, I believe these sluts should be paying me!
That being said, I have a tale to tell involving the crazy world of prostitution. I was hanging out with a coworker one chilly night (sorry, no one from Laststory.com), drinking beer, shooting pool, and scouting out potential Friends With Benefits. But it was one of those nights where I was more in love with alcohol than with getting laid. So I dropped my “attack strategy” and went straight for the booze. You guys know what I’m talking about—getting blown in the bathroom of a nightclub is always fun, but sometimes a fella just wants to binge-drink himself into oblivion. But unlike me, my coworker was all about getting some pussy that night…
“It’s been 5 months since I had some snatch, Mr. Nova! What do I do?”
“How bad do you need to get it?” I asked. Of course, I asked him this question from a distance; I was afraid he might start humping my leg if he got too close.
“My balls are so swelled up I can feel them pulsating in my boxer shorts! I got a Woodrow just looking at that chubby girl bending over to pick up her purse. I want to go in the bathroom and whack-off! I gotta relieve the pain!”
“That is gross, dude. We gotta get you laid.”
I took it upon myself to help this unfortunate soul out. Five months is a long time. Hell, Mr. Nova gets cranky after five days. I made it my mission to pass some of my power onto him.
It didn’t work out so well. I tried to reason with him.
“Now, don’t expect to get laid tonight. We might be able to find a real slut, but most likely we will have to settle for some backstage Betties for later use. You know what I mean? We’ll lay down the groundwork tonight and maybe you can get some nookie next weekend.”
“Fuck that,” my co-worker said with determination. “I need some pussy tonight!”
“The bitches will sense your desperation. You must show patience, young Skywalker.”
I felt like Obi-Wan telling Luke not to go off to Bespin to save Han and Leia. But the muthafucker wouldn’t listen. The Force inside him was pushing him to the dark side. And by dark, I don’t mean ass.
He tried to bag several girls. He offered drinks and favors. He talked up his skills as a gourmet chef. He promised the world. But it didn’t work out. The girls accepted the free drinks and then blew him off.
We went from club to bar, from rave to strip joint. Nothing worked. He was finally drunk and disillusioned enough to quit. We hopped into my piece of shit Nova-mobile so I could drop him off at his apartment. On the way back he saw a prostitute working her corner, sticking out her tits at the other cars and scratching her skanky ass.
“Stop!” he shouted, suddenly coming alive. “Pull over!”
Like a Mexican crossing the border, he bolted out of my car and sprinted over to the whore. A minute later they were both coming back to my vehicle. They hopped in the back. She had her hand on his thigh the moment they settled in.
“Mr. Nova, we gotta go to this nice girl’s apartment.”
I asked where she lived and she gave me the directions. She was alright looking, except for the nasty scar on her cheek. Probably from a former pimp.
We got to her apartment building. It was a seedy section of town. We went upstairs to the 4th floor. Her place was a fucking mess. He paid her the money upfront. She seemed happy to get some loot.
“Mr. Nova, do you mind waiting for a little while?” my coworker begged.
“Nah, I’ll just watch some TV. Go bust a nut, slugger.”
I had to sit there for ten minutes, listening to her scream as my coworker let out five months of aggression. I could hear a few things the prostitute was screaming.
“No, not there! I am too stretched out for that! Just fuck me you bastard! That’s right! Shit, let me get another condom!”
He just kept yelling at her: “Take it! C’mon and take it you dirty slizz!” I’ll be honest—I don’t know what a “slizz” is. I just know that if anyone calls my Mom a slizz, I’ll beat their ass.
After he was done he came out of the room with a big goofy grin. “Sorry, Mr. Nova. She is too tired to fuck you.”
“It’s alright. It really is.” Hey, I didn’t even want to fuck her. It’s not Nova’s style to bat cleanup after one of his boys. Either I perform first or not at all.
On the way home I asked him how much he paid to fuck her.
“$45!” he replied, laughing like a James Bond villain. “What a cheap bitch! Good fuck, too. Damn I needed that!”
The next day my coworker told everyone at the store what he had done the night before. He felt relieved to get over the five month dry spell. I thought he was crazy for being so proud, but when I thought about it, I saw the logic behind the insanity. When you think about how much you would spend on a date… $45 would barely cover drinks and appetizers, let alone a movie and a full-course dinner. Plus, there would be a chance you wouldn’t even get laid! $45 bought my coworker his dignity—without having to deal with the emotions, commitment, or any other crap like that. It may not be the Nova-way to regain pride, but for some it works.
Just wear a fucking condom, you sick bastards! You don’t know where those whores have been!
That being said, I have a tale to tell involving the crazy world of prostitution. I was hanging out with a coworker one chilly night (sorry, no one from Laststory.com), drinking beer, shooting pool, and scouting out potential Friends With Benefits. But it was one of those nights where I was more in love with alcohol than with getting laid. So I dropped my “attack strategy” and went straight for the booze. You guys know what I’m talking about—getting blown in the bathroom of a nightclub is always fun, but sometimes a fella just wants to binge-drink himself into oblivion. But unlike me, my coworker was all about getting some pussy that night…
“It’s been 5 months since I had some snatch, Mr. Nova! What do I do?”
“How bad do you need to get it?” I asked. Of course, I asked him this question from a distance; I was afraid he might start humping my leg if he got too close.
“My balls are so swelled up I can feel them pulsating in my boxer shorts! I got a Woodrow just looking at that chubby girl bending over to pick up her purse. I want to go in the bathroom and whack-off! I gotta relieve the pain!”
“That is gross, dude. We gotta get you laid.”
I took it upon myself to help this unfortunate soul out. Five months is a long time. Hell, Mr. Nova gets cranky after five days. I made it my mission to pass some of my power onto him.
It didn’t work out so well. I tried to reason with him.
“Now, don’t expect to get laid tonight. We might be able to find a real slut, but most likely we will have to settle for some backstage Betties for later use. You know what I mean? We’ll lay down the groundwork tonight and maybe you can get some nookie next weekend.”
“Fuck that,” my co-worker said with determination. “I need some pussy tonight!”
“The bitches will sense your desperation. You must show patience, young Skywalker.”
I felt like Obi-Wan telling Luke not to go off to Bespin to save Han and Leia. But the muthafucker wouldn’t listen. The Force inside him was pushing him to the dark side. And by dark, I don’t mean ass.
He tried to bag several girls. He offered drinks and favors. He talked up his skills as a gourmet chef. He promised the world. But it didn’t work out. The girls accepted the free drinks and then blew him off.
We went from club to bar, from rave to strip joint. Nothing worked. He was finally drunk and disillusioned enough to quit. We hopped into my piece of shit Nova-mobile so I could drop him off at his apartment. On the way back he saw a prostitute working her corner, sticking out her tits at the other cars and scratching her skanky ass.
“Stop!” he shouted, suddenly coming alive. “Pull over!”
Like a Mexican crossing the border, he bolted out of my car and sprinted over to the whore. A minute later they were both coming back to my vehicle. They hopped in the back. She had her hand on his thigh the moment they settled in.
“Mr. Nova, we gotta go to this nice girl’s apartment.”
I asked where she lived and she gave me the directions. She was alright looking, except for the nasty scar on her cheek. Probably from a former pimp.
We got to her apartment building. It was a seedy section of town. We went upstairs to the 4th floor. Her place was a fucking mess. He paid her the money upfront. She seemed happy to get some loot.
“Mr. Nova, do you mind waiting for a little while?” my coworker begged.
“Nah, I’ll just watch some TV. Go bust a nut, slugger.”
I had to sit there for ten minutes, listening to her scream as my coworker let out five months of aggression. I could hear a few things the prostitute was screaming.
“No, not there! I am too stretched out for that! Just fuck me you bastard! That’s right! Shit, let me get another condom!”
He just kept yelling at her: “Take it! C’mon and take it you dirty slizz!” I’ll be honest—I don’t know what a “slizz” is. I just know that if anyone calls my Mom a slizz, I’ll beat their ass.
After he was done he came out of the room with a big goofy grin. “Sorry, Mr. Nova. She is too tired to fuck you.”
“It’s alright. It really is.” Hey, I didn’t even want to fuck her. It’s not Nova’s style to bat cleanup after one of his boys. Either I perform first or not at all.
On the way home I asked him how much he paid to fuck her.
“$45!” he replied, laughing like a James Bond villain. “What a cheap bitch! Good fuck, too. Damn I needed that!”
The next day my coworker told everyone at the store what he had done the night before. He felt relieved to get over the five month dry spell. I thought he was crazy for being so proud, but when I thought about it, I saw the logic behind the insanity. When you think about how much you would spend on a date… $45 would barely cover drinks and appetizers, let alone a movie and a full-course dinner. Plus, there would be a chance you wouldn’t even get laid! $45 bought my coworker his dignity—without having to deal with the emotions, commitment, or any other crap like that. It may not be the Nova-way to regain pride, but for some it works.
Just wear a fucking condom, you sick bastards! You don’t know where those whores have been!
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Mr. Nova's update 2.24.28
Your Novanator is slowly crawling back from the depths of a binary coma. I hope to recount exactly what happened at the end of 2004 for my Novanites someday soon. What transpired in the following years almost caused my demise at the hands of The Grim Reaper. Until then, Nova needs love on TWITTER.
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