We go to a pub called Hog World, around the side of the Tower Shops — the only business still open at night. It’s a dirt-sweaty place, but always filled with new and slosh-interesting people who always know to fun it up crazy.
The owners and most common customers of Hog World are of the Hoggian race, but we all know them as Hogs. They are the only race of people that brought their riches with them through the walm. They never go anywhere without their wealth, and were able to fit into Earthling society without difficulty. Hogs are actually the only wealthy people left in Rippington now. The original Rippingtonians are all poor or going poor, including those of us at the warehouse. The only income we have, besides life-force, is rent money from John and Satan, and we have to split that up four ways. We’re going to Hog World to blow the last of this money, but it is blowing to a worthy cause, so none of us are caring. It is, however, the last time we’ll be able to have this sort of fun, which is very ill-depressing. I try not to mull on it.
The walk from warehouse to Hog World is still carpety soft on my bare feet, and I have a constant need to say, “Oh, poor parasites,” over and over again, directing it toward the people on the streets, but I mean to direct it toward the rest of the world too. The alcohol has given Leaf some sense of disgust for all people, even the thousands of homeless around me. And I think it’s fun to be mean to them. They are, mostly, the ones responsible for ending happiness in this world, even their own happiness. So I say, “Oh, poor, poor, poor,” all the way to happy Hog World.
Hog World doesn’t let any parasites inside — they have no money and do nothing but steal oxygen. The Hogs charge ten dollars at the door, which isn’t that much considering it’s the smug-fanciest pub in town, but during these weeks ten dollars is BIG money, and wasting BIG money isn’t that terrible anymore. Money is an endangered species now.
They say, “Fifteen Dollars,” when we get to the door.
Face-fuckers, Christian whispers, but I just laugh, not very surprised. And there is a snarled crowd of starving people, watching us as we pay to go inside. A child with penis breasts cries into my thigh.
I just say, “Poor, poor parasites,” with a cold smile.
Richard Stein always said that the RICH are the scum of the world. He is wrong. In this world, we are all scum.
Inside is another one of these round-a-go crowds that I keep seeing into… too many people jolly-dancing in the waves of my vision…
God’s Eyes:
Above the crowd, a ceiling fan’s view, Christian, Mort, and my body walk through to the bar and sit down for some sticky goo-doo — a drink like honey with alcohol mixed in. A shoe spider is on the counter, pulling a small wagon of walnuts for the customers to handle and eat. Shoe spiders are much like hermit crabs, but they live inside of shoes instead of shells.
I take a walnut and put it inside my sticky goo-doo. Walnuts have strong flavor and taste good in thick drinks.
“Let’s get fucked in the ass!” Christian says, screeching a party call.
Christian is not as homophobic as Mort, and thinks it’s funny to talk like he’s a homosexual. But he wouldn’t have said anything if Satan had been around; Satan doesn’t realize that Christian only says these things when he’s drunk.
In other words: GETTING FUCKED IN THE ASS = PARTY.
Christian actually enjoys getting fucked in the ass — that is, if a girl is giving it to him with a strap-on dildo. He feels very homosexual for enjoying the performance and won’t tell any of his friends about it. Sometimes a girl will think peculiar thoughts of Christian when he asks her to take him in the behind. Sometimes a girl will become thrill-enflamed by the opportunity to take a man like men take her. Sometimes Christian masturbates with a dildo.
The shoe spider crawls back into his shoe.
“I’m getting laid tonight,” Christian burps.
He puts on his girl-maker face — a sly hollow. Then he turns the beams of his forehead on, scoping the room for a good score — a woman with six breasts maybe or one with more curves than a human girl would own. I only see two humans in here, females, sitting on the laps of Hogs, very RICH.
Hogs are a flabby sort of people. Not too ugly, but very unexercised. The women have large ears and unusually large breasts that bludgeon their sex opponents. Their eyes are speckled with purple and their clothes, ripped for style, expose the very pale, almost gray, skin underneath. The men are shorter than the women, stocky, BIG teeth in their smiles. They go, “Gar, gar, gar!” when they laugh.
Christian isn’t interested in a Hoggian though. He wants the girl with two sets of arms, sitting in the corner over there. She has a very attractive face, but no breasts. Smooth yellowish skin, sliming, which is why Christian wants her. His color is yellow this year. He goes to her without telling us, a man-sly walk to her and she actually seems interested in it. Well, maybe she’s just happy that somebody is interested in her. She looks very lonely.
Now it’s just me and the Mortician. Drinking…
I decide to get very drunk, not just normal drunk like I usually am. I want to drink like it’s the end of the world, which it might be. Where the world ends, hell begins… at least in the traditional sense of the word hell.
I drink some sticky goo-doo and wash it down with common Earth gin. Mortician neck-dribbles the gin after me, garbling about his philosophy on life.
“That’s how every day should be,” he says, Japanese accent thicker than usual. “You just work all day and get drunk all night.”
“What about weekends?” I ask.
“You get twice as drunk on them.”
“Great philosophy,” feeling the buzz stab deep inside.
He slicks back an oil-stiff drink, hard on his chest. “Goes down like a cactus.” He hasn’t been speaking in his pirate accent today. I don’t wonder why, but I’m glad.
“Speaking of philosophy,” he says, making me cringe. “Did you read any Sorpon Black?”
“Sure.” I don’t get excited. Philosophy is an ugly
color, especially when you’re drinking.
“What do you think about him?” Mortician asks.
Mort is BIG on philosophy. Always gaming for debates during the drinking times, his way of socializing. He does this with religion too, and politics, and food selections. But Mort is more into the arguing part than the deep-thinking part. And Mort is never able to start up debates with enough people these days since nobody believes anything sacred enough to argue over.
As for Sorpon Black, he was an oldtime hippie philosopher, whose deep-thinking came out of his ample supply of repressed sexual energy. Old Sorpon never had sex a day in his life, not even with himself, and he was an extremely attractive guy. But very bitter. The reason why he never had sex was because he was afraid of his own penis. He couldn’t handle the way it slunk-stickered in his shorts, so sensitive when rubbed against his thigh. To make matters worse for him, his penis was unusually BIG. It was five and a half inches larger than mine, and my penis isn’t considered small — at least for my height.
The sick-scary part for Sorpon was the erection. When erect, there’s nothing a man can think about other than his penis, whether he’s sitting at work or playing a basketball game or fully-engorged within a woman’s vagina. When Sorpon was in elementary school, he would scream blood-shrieks while watching his erection grow and grow and grow to the unbearable maximum. It was like a poisonous salad snake had been dropped in his lap.