“I do not view pornography! I do not view pornography!” Sir ‘Fishy’ Frederick proclaims. His skin is crinkled and yellow-orange as battered seafood, with all the grease to match. He wears bright blue shorts adorned with a repeating pattern of Queen Victoria. Hardened smegma flecks coat the unzipped fly, evenly spaced as if he had lined them with a ruler. He refuses to wear underwear, maintaining that only a masturbator would have something to hide.
Lurking between the hair and flakes of rashy thighs one may spot an aberrant penis, large in all the wrong directions. This corkscrewing contraption admits twin growths - auxiliary glandes. Frederick is a proud Triphallic (“who has never tried phallic!”) - an owner of an organ he refers to as ‘Cerberus’. He is certain that when the time is right and he first produces an erection, it will be a truly formidable contender (in a purely procreative arena).
As proud he is to possess such a weapon, there are times when late at night he thinks of it. Unlike other men and their weak, doomed wills, he possesses no lust or want of devil’s handjobbywork; rather, he is simply curious as to the noises he hears. In between dreams of Mary Whitehouse and a Proper Britain he often awakes to gurgling noises, and a fresh coat of ‘paint’ to his genitalia’s smegmatic armour. Of course, a wet dream is a normal thing for a bachelor with no penchant for premarital mischief - but the noises do seem odd. At times like these he returns to sleep disturbed, and nightmares rule over him.
Each vision proceeds the same way: all kinds of animals are tied to posts. It is raining. First, hooded figures bludgeon lions, bears and crocodiles into submission with makeshift hammers and flails. After their wills have been broken, their faces are stomped upon and smashed in. Blood sprays into the flooded gutter, mixing with rainwater and voided bowel contents.
Seeing the fates of the wild animals, hamsters, cats and dogs frantically attempt to escape, willing to sever their own limbs in the process. He always remarks that their end is more humiliating; they are gently, almost lovingly pushed into the puddles of rain and held until drowned.
- Esssie Nihil, prior to May 2019