Holy Red Mother

I fucking worship you

Yeah, and one minute, I’m sittin’ in this dank cave.

And some beaver-like creature is liquid shittin’ in the corner near where the ants have their farmers market on a Sunday (not that there are days of the week in Tibet. I added it to enhance your understanding, alright?)

I say beaver-like cos it ain’t got one of those flat tails like the paddle my Auntie Phil used on my Uncle Rita when she’d been down the local gloryhole without his permission again.

I’d hear him whackin’ her when I slept over.

Yer a little fuckin slut, he’d say.

And she’d say,

Fuckin sorry, Daddy.

Uncle Rita was a fuckin cow, but she never deserved that. Also, I never realised Auntie Phil was also Uncle Rita’s father — strange world.

Anyway, then I’d just hear fuckin whack, whack.

But yeah, this thing (the beaver-like creature) has a fuckin tail like a cartoon fox, red and bushy like Sarah Ferguson’s bush only with that perfect white pointy tip that looks like it gets bleached every fortnight by an Asian lady called Hon.

N I’m thinkin’ it must be the local deities tryin’ to fuck with me or the guardian of this wet cave testin’ me to see if I’ve got the balls to hang around once the stench of his beaver-like shit starts to hit my nostrils.

N it is a fuckin test. It fuckin burns like someone’s stuffin’ Carolina Reapers up my snout.

I look down at my pecha and the writin’s goin’ all weird with rainbow light round the edges. And I’m thinkin’ not fuckin this again, it must be the Guru Shanshek manifestin’ as a beaver-like dirty cunt.

And I’m just conscious enough to watch the fuck run out of the cave and back down through the grass into the great Tsurphu valley below. N that’s when the bliss of his stench starts to drag me into that fuckin non-dual state.

N the next thing I’m in this futuristic dystopian back alley, wet and shiny with rain and countless reflected light jewels of neon whatevers.

For some reason, I’m crouched down but with my fuckin fist to my head like that statue, the thinker. N I’m fuckin stark naked and my body is shiny with some kind of grease. I stand up slowly and swipe my index faynger under my left nipple and I smell and taste. It’s fuckin’ turkey fat. Must have been residue from when I whipped through that nineteen-sixty-four traditional Mississippi Christmas vortex as I was traversing the forty-seven thousandth dimension on the way here.

N now I’m lookin’ round to get some kinda fuckin’ clue as to what damn year it is. Is it the year of the mouse, the horse, the turkey? The beaver-like stinkin’ cunt? Is that even a year? I doubt it.

“Say you, yes, YOU boy,” I say to this fuckin young lad who’s walkin’ past in late Victorian era tweeds apart from one of those hats that ye put beer in wiv two fuckin straws in his damn mouth—only its fuckin Pepsi, not beer. “What year is it, fine fellow?”

And for some reason, the little fuck starts screamin’ and runs off. N I realise it must be the fuckin’ turkey fat. Obviously, ya can’t just cover yer body in turkey fat in these times.

Noted.

So I walk into this weird fuckin bar instead.

And there’s this fuckin bikey lookin’ guy who looks like the love child of Jeff Lebowski and Jeff Bridges.

“Excuse me, fine fellow,” I say to him. “Do you mind terribly if I take your clothing, your footwear and your motorcycle?”

He stares at me for a minute, then walks up and puts his fuckin cigar out on my shoulder. N yeah it stings a bit, but I’m more bothered about the turkey fat catchin’ fire and startin’ some compulsory self-immolation crap.

And he says,

“Sorry, old chap. I drive a Tesla. But yer welcome to my clothes — if you can catch me.”

And the old faggot runs off skipping n giggling through some door next to the bar.

Now I aint too well versed on whatever culture this is but I figure it must be some kind of a fuckin ritual, so I follow the dude out through this fuckin door. N the barman, who looks like Hank Moody shakes his fuckin head at me.

Fuck him.

And now I’m in some kind of dungeon. There are pictures of fuckin Eddie Vedder all over the walls and fuckin half-eaten pumpkins everywhere n a bunch of skinny young ladies all chained up like fuckin Princess Leia from the Lord of the Rings, whatever that is.

N up front on the fuckin throne, she’s there.

Long black leather boots, thighs soaked in the olive oil of at least twelve extra virgins. I can feel the fuckin’ heat hit me square in my fourth eye.

Fuck.

Blood red fuckin lingerie. Dark eye makeup. Fangs like fuckin razors. Long dark hair with the ends sparkin’ like one of those fuckin electric balls ya used to touch in the eighties.

Her mother-like tits are pulsing through the red fabric, bleeding hot silver milk from perfect, pink, warm sculptured teets, begging to be sucked and caressed and devoured.

And I know if I drink, I’m not goin’ back to my fucking cave.

At her feet is Jeff Lebowski, dead as Alan Rickman, fuckin bleeding, his damn throat eaten out.

“Good evening, Mistress,” I say, my turkey fat-soaked erection pointing in the direction of her red cloth-covered slick pussy which is now drenching her throne in the clearest, hottest, stinking diamond liquid which steams as it pools beneath her.

“Where the fuck have you been?” she says in a euphoric chant that sounds like Judy Garland on MDMA.

Her words make my fucking eye marbles roll back into their slots.

“My pussy is fucking aching,” she growls. “You know I don’t like to be kept waiting. Now get over here and drink.”

I appear instantly kneeling before her, my head less than a foot from her open thighs, my head immersed in this wave of wet fucking heat like a Persian sauna and swimming in the holy scent of stinking hot pussy.

I’m fucking dizzy.

I gaze up into her sky-like eyes and our minds merge into one.

“Kill me,” I say. “Fucking kill me and I’m yours forever.”

“First, choose,” she says. Her blood-red underwear decays like a fucking corpse in fast-forward, eaten up by dark fungus and hellish creatures.

Close up, the most perfect tits in the cosmos, pulsing with the electrical cosmic dance of birth and destruction and dripping shamelessly with molten silver milk, begging to be sucked.

Close up, the most perfect pussy I’ve ever seen, soft and delicate, shining wet, swollen, hot and squirming with clear diamond liquid, begging to be fucked.

Must I choose?

I know what I want. I bite down hard on the left tit. She screams like a tortured child and her salted blood mixes with sweet and sour silver milk in my gob.

I swallow and swallow, gulping her endless chest cream into my hot stomach which fucking burns with the heat of timeless, deep loving bliss. And I feel her dagger, slide effortlessly across my throat like a tax accountant slicing the gouda before his Sunday meetup group arrives for Dungeons and Dragons.

For a timeless moment, I’m not there.

It’s fucking Anne of Green Gables.

It’s her pureland.

She’s the mother, nurturing the children.

I can’t bear the perfection.

And just like that, I’m back in that cave, staring down the valley after the beaver-like stinking cunt.

We don’t have watches in Tibet, but it’s been about a second.

And the stink is gone.

The wet cave drips its wetness. The ants buy their fucking sourdough and raw honey.

And I, an old yogi, not long from death and rebirth, look toward the West and think about her.

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