WARNING: This is an extremely weird comedy tale. It’s very raunchy and the style of humor may be off-putting to those with more conservative sensibilities.
The city of Cystopia. Last bastion of hope for the flaccid and feckless Chad Grundelmylk. So craven, so meek. For twelve long years Chad has lumbered these sopping hedonistic streets, sagging beneath the staggering girth of his own guilt that he wears like a goiter around his throat. Seeking respite and reprieve from his multitudinous transgressions he marinates in a life of bland mediocrity. His apartment in the gutter-slums is middling, his employment at the Clam and Oyster Cloister is lackluster, his love life is tragically absent and his nethers have withered accordingly. Yet, for all his flavorless mundanity Chad is unknowingly a hero of Cystopia. Perhaps a hero of circumstance. Perhaps a grand avatar of punctual coordination and blind luck. Regardless, he is a hero nonetheless. Unfortunately, tonight, Chad Grundelmylk’s life, and the man himself, will be irreparably changed.
Far beneath the dark, moist creases of this throbbing metropolis lurks a turgid and terrible menace. In his damp subterranean lair the cunning Count Ejacula Von Spewen cackles in jubilant triumph. He stands before a grainy television monitor absentmindedly caressing the rusty metallic semis-phere strapped to his groin. Within the borders of the screen a scrawny man in his late thirties slumps drowsily over a kitchen table, an open heart shaped box of chocolates sits before him. The man attempts to muster the strength to stand but only succeeds in collapsing to the floor unconscious. The Count runs a greasy finger across the staticky screen, tracing the outline of the man.
“I wonder, art thou as creamy as thy surname suggests, Mr. Grundelmylk? Let’s find out together, shall we.”
With uproarious laughter Count Ejacula emerges from the sewers to retrieve his prize.
Year after maddening year Chad Grudelmylk has unwittingly foiled the Counts diabolic ambitions at every turn; upon the thrumming subway, by the undulating docks, on the carousel at the county fair, in the silent aisles of the dusty library and the slumbering alcoves of the musty necropolis. Each an attempt at rapturous release. Each attempt invariably thwarted by that oblivious buffoon. And yet the Count is no fool. He has come to see the genius intrinsic to Chad’s idiotic methods. With the clever aid of well placed surveillance cameras, Ejacula has studied the patterns and perambulations of his arch-nemesis from the depths of his lair. This surveillance has yielded a great deal of insight into the man who stands in staunch opposition to Ejacula and his libidinal machinations. Much to Count Ejacula’s brimming pleasure he’s discovered that one of Chad’s nightly routines is weeping in profound loneliness as he stares forlornly into a picture frame. Disgusting. With Valentines Day fast approaching the Count has hatched a plan to exploit this crippling desperation and capture the Mylk menace once and for all.
Worldly possessions mean naught to men of Ejacula’s ilk, but knowledge on the other hand is priceless and while Chad was limping through his mundane existence the Count was extensively researching the history of his familial tree. The patrilineal line of Spewen runs deep, it would seem. As ancient founders of this fine city the Spewens seeded these streets and impregnated Cystopia itself with their noble bloodline before treacherously being shamed into seclusion by the other founding families. Now only Ejacula remains, the sole survivor of that once aristocratic pedigree and their legacy has all but been forgotten. Yet after centuries the graveyards and cemeteries of Cystopia have been sown with the Spewen’s dead, patiently ripening within the soil, waiting to be harvested.
In the weeks leading up to Valentines Day Count Ejacula has feverishly excavated and exhumed the graves of his ancestors beneath the cowl of darkness. Countless nights of plotting, preparation, and clandestine skulkery have coalesced into the fruition of his greatest ambition yet. At long last and not a moment too soon Count Ejacula Von Spewen has amassed the fabled foreflesh of his fathers and stitched them together to create a glorious piecemeal phallic phylactery; the Ancestral Spewen Sleeve.
In the early hours of Valentines Day, whilst Chad was wringing the juice out of shellfish down at the Clam and Oyster Cloister, Count Ejacula purchased a box of chocolates and left them upon the doorstep of Chad’s pathetic apartment but not before heavily lacing them with sedatives. Before he made his escape the Count scrawled a hastily written note and placed it on the door;
“From your secret admirer”.
Chad groggily comes to consciousness and finds himself unable to move, unable to blink. He is firmly bound to a chair and some heinous apparatus is holding his eyelids open. The saccharine scent of candles hangs heavy in the air, haphazardly masking the stench of the sewers. Chad is scared and confused. Moaning aloud he cries out “Help! If anyone can hear me I need Help! I can’t move!” From somewhere close behind him footsteps approach.
“Who’s there? Show yourself!” Chad struggles to turn his head but is held firmly in place.
Count Ejacula steps into Chad’s limited field of view, wreathed in candlelight.
“Ah, at long last we truly meet. The Man, The Myth, The Mylk. What do you have to say for yourself, you glistening sucklette?”
Chad’s mouth falls agape as he takes in the filthy, disheveled man before him. Wearing nothing more than a moldering beige bathrobe and his trademark heavy chrome codpiece Count Ejacula rubs the course stubble upon his chin, his fiery gaze boring a hole through Chad’s face as he impatiently awaits a response.
“I think there’s been some kind of mistake, mister.”
With a sharp bark of laughter Ejacula retorts “Are you suggesting that I’ve made a mistake, my savory little gravy boy? I think not. You play the fool. You play me for a fool. Not this time, Grundelmylk! No room for your cunning trickery down here.”
Rolling wildly in their sockets, Chad's eyes dart feverishly about the stone chamber.
“Listen, Mister, I don’t know who you are or what you want but I’ll do anything you tell me to. Just don’t hurt me.”
The Count steps closer and bends forward, his face within inches of Chad’s own.
“Oh, I’ve no intention of hurting you, Chad. I merely needed to detain you. I cannot have you intervening this time. Not after so much careful preparation. All you must do is watch. Watch as I have watched you for so long.”
The odiferous decay of Ejaula’s breath causes Chad to recoil as much as his restraints will allow.
“Watch what? Can’t you see that I don’t know what you’re talking about?”
The Count retreats a few paces before pointing an accusatory finger at Chad.
“You’ve got quite the audacity to hinder my pursuits as you have. I’ve seen you slithering around downtown perusing the plump wares at the Bargain Slit Farm. You masquerade as a hero before the Cystopian people but I have seen the depths of your hypocrisy. You dare to cast your oafish curds at leisure upon the tufted sheets of your barren marital bed. One can merely speculate what shameful dribble is drawn from out that sallow tap and all the while this root yields the richest sap.” Here Count Ejacula raps his knuckles against his impressive pseudo bulge.
“Mister, please, I’m begging you. You have to let me go. I swear I won’t tell anybody! It’s not too late to stop this.” The panic that has been gradually building within Chad has climaxed into fervent hysteria.
Ejacula assumes a broad stance and a crazed grin flashes across his face as he casts his robe aside.
“I am permitted to remove my sacrosanct cod-cradle but once per year on Rubbings Day to perform the sacred Spewen Ritual of Emissions. Every year for the last 5 years you, Chad, have robbed me of my frictional birthright! For too long I have perched upon the quivering cusp of expulsion! On this night you shall witness the spasmodic spurts of my hot prostatic sputum and testify to the volume and viscosity of this, my superior slurry. You will attest to the incomparable turbidity therein and only then will you understand just what wonders you’ve deprived the world of. Now, behold my burgeoning stalk, my trunk and my tresses!”
With one hand Count Ejacula Von Spewen reaches behind his back and deftly unclasps a buckle allowing his tarnished codpiece to fall to the ground where it clangs against the stone. The chamber immediately fills with the pungent, ripe miasma of fetid unwashed underbroth.
Now exposed, the maddening visage of Ejacula’s distended pelvic pudendum is revealed. The pendulous flesh mallet sways heavily as those drooping slickened bobbles beneath slap meatily against the chafed skin of his inner thighs. The malformed elephantine mass is wreathed by a matted mane of dreaded pubic locks. Carelessly sutured about that scaly calloused tip is a grotesque patchwork of motley putrefaction; The Ancestral Spewen Sleeve.
“Art thou prepared to witness the Ritual of Emissions, Chad?”
Ropey veins surface upon Count Ejacula’s reddening face as he begins to forcefully push with a guttural grunt. Before Chad’s very eyes that gnarled and twisted erogenous club thickens with engorgement, spilling hot gouts of septic grey sewage from out its chapped maw with every beat of Ejacula’s black heart.
Chad looks on in disgusted terror as Ejacula lengthens before him, every inch of that cankerous tenderloin teeming with ruptured pustules and gangrenous sores.
“OH, MERCIFUL GOD IN HEAVEN, WHY ARE THERE BARNACLES!?” Chad cries out helplessly.
With great reverence Count Ejacula wraps his clammy hands around that horribly Lovecraftian frankencrank and proceeds to explosively piston his hips, thrusting wildly into his own clutching grasp.
Openly sobbing Chad pleads; “Stop! You can’t do this! I’m begging you, sir, please for the love of all that is holy, you have to stop!”
Count Ejacula snaps his head around locking eyes with Chad, a look of grim determination upon his face.
“I’ve only just begun, boy.” Ejacula spits as he hunches into a half squat and redoubles the vigor of his strokes.
“You cannot begin to fathom what lies beneath my restless rind!” Count Ejacula’s mutagenic genitalia have become a blur of kinesis, his silken pre-nectar whipped into a foamy lather by the fury of his carnal thrustings.
“I am the womb and the conception! I am the guardian at the gate and my glandular expressions are the key!”
The clandestine byways and sluices of the sprawling sewer system beneath Cystopia softly begin to whistle and howl as a seemingly sourceless wind rises and races through the subterranean tunnels. The dancing lutescent firelight of the numerous candles illuminating Count Ejacula grow dim and cold as the yellow flames transition into a dull blue ambient glow.
All sound save for the frantic lunging of Count Ejacula falls silent as the blue stillness envelopes the chamber.
Time seems to slow for Chad despite the pace of his racing heart. “Mister, for the last time, I don’t know what you’re talking about! Please, you have to stop thrusting! Can’t you see what's happening?!” The words escape his thin lips sluggishly, lingering in the air for far too long. Ejacula alone seems unaffected by this temporal distortion as he continues frenetically churning his own gutter butter.
A low rolling incoherent chant rises from the dark recesses and shadows. The chamber trembles and the rubble upon the stone floor begins to rise, weightlessly adrift.
Ejacula’s eyes roll back in their sockets, his face awash with euphoria as he groans deeply, “Oh, my arrival approaches. The threshold is near! Just…a little…further……..”
Chad looks on traumatized as Count Ejacula’s back arches sharply and his feet leave the ground, levitating inches above the stonework. In an otherworldly resonant voice Count Ejacula Von Spewen bellows;
Liters of seminal discharge erupt from the mouth of his swollen and inflamed pud cudgel as Count Ejacula convulses in violent ecstasy. Once those fertile stores are depleted a torrent of bile is regurgitated followed by several erratic spurts of sputtering crimson blood. Still suspended midair like a marionette, Count Ejacula moans softly as an ethereal protoplasmic pseudopod of ectoplasm is jettisoned from out the tip of his knotted gristlehorn.
Tethered to Ejacula’s fleshy helm this spectral gelatinous plume drifts amorphously across the chamber before assuming the general shape of an incorporeal spatial aperture. The obfuscated milky center of this yawning preternatural sphincter clarifies to reveal a throng of ghostly apparitions gathered at the other side. One by one the spirits push through the boundary, solidifying into inchoate flesh as they cross over that nascent partition. Soon the chamber is rife with the resurrected dead. A myriad of men, women, and children coalesce around the hovering form of Count Ejacula and upon each individual person there resides a tarnished silver codpiece affixed to their crotch.
As the final spirit exits the portal the tether is severed and the doorway flickers out of existence. At that moment Ejacula descends to the ground once more. The crowd delivers a dignified applause as his feet light upon the stone and the nude Count Ejacula bows deeply.
“WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK IS GOING ON!?” Chad Grundelmylk exclaims vehemently, his face a rictus of baffled horror.
At this outburst all the solemn faces turn their gaze upon Chad in unison. Ejacula chuckles as he approaches Chad’s chair, the sea of people parting around him;
“A special round of applause for my special boy.” Count Ejacula claps condescendingly as he stands bare before Chad, his corrupted hogstaff suppurating residual nether dew. “Now you see the secrets concealed within my supple folds. You have failed, Mr. Grundelmylk. The Age of Spewen has returned to Cystopia!”
The dissociative fugue of shock washes over Chad. He stares vacantly off into the distance and mumbles absentmindedly “Can I go home now? I just want to go home…”
Count Ejacula sighs and looks upon Chad with disappointment, “You are the most Chadless Chad I have ever seen.” He leans over and releases Chad from the straps and ocular apparatus. “Go and return to your pitiful life, Mr. Grundelmylk, and never forget what glory you witnessed here today. I do so look forward to meeting you again.”
Chad stands and ambles aimlessly through the staggering crowd, out of the sewers and back into the pulsing streets of Cystopia, and although he will spend many years trying, he never truly recovers from his encounter with Count Ejacula Von Spewen.
Oddly enough... I was reading this last night in the submissions and laughing maniacally. A horribly, gruesomely liquid tale... a semantic tale of semen:)