/lit/ - Literature

Critique thread: cuckmaster edition
Trip because I want to be accountable for what I say. r8 or h8.

Also, this starts in the middle of a paragraph for reasons.

...Jeff, the business man, is probably worried about his wife feeling lonely. Jeff has small hands, though they’re quite dexterous on his iPhone.
And John, a connoisseur of natural selection, believes it’s not only his right but his duty to take what he can. There was a circumstance that once led him on a cocaine bender, fresh out of college with his first disposable income, that ended with an exploratory mission on a newly-engaged little darling hours after her fiancé had found bedways to be the best way. It wasn’t a long ordeal. Five days ending in a great party, hosted by the pinnacle cream puff who labored for the most of a day to set up all the food that wasn’t eaten during the event, only to find his personal stash had been compromised, and the cocaine was John’s.
The sex is alright; the sleep is amazing, nuts busted on a slut’s butt and home for the evening, gather around the campfire and a bellyful of mama’s tittymilk. He was always the one that would keep his partner awake with his snoring. His back often wrecked with clawmarks, though gentler scratching danach, a big boulder of somber facing the night’s entertainment, and they’d lay there, thinking about their decisions, and offer a soft massage, trying only to hold onto their escapism, to make it all seem authentic. It was these moments that brought him the droopy eyes. A smile facing away from the depression turned into a vulgar phchhhuhh phhhchhuhh phchuhhhhh, this and the wall facing them the only reminder of what just happened, or maybe a shuffling through a phone to see new messages from the mister, away on business of course.
The morning: John’s gone. A text message, ‘hey, sorry, I had to give my buddy a ride to work,’ someone they’d never meet and someone who never existed. ‘I had a great time’ to really fuck with them, dichotomize them into two schools of thought: me too or I’m just fun to him, and both were equally likely to be recidivists.

I had a dream. A politician, I, banding and bandaging a nation with a wound that would require stitching; my enemy, a nonsensical ethnic elite, was the opposition to the healing of the country, and, against my best efforts, they extorted and abused, a mafia of a people. And I, I was going to stop them, to oust them, to bring out the dark secrets that could disband the fascist state that they kept us in, I being the figurehead of democracy, appearing in power, and trying to seize it by opening my mouth to all of this. And they threatened me: in two weeks, when I’m next giving a major speech, I’m not to say anything out of line, for there will be an array of rifles aimed at my head. It was surreal, and I was a void for the next day of dream-time, trying to silently convey my appreciation for all my loved ones, unknowing of my fate and to remain in the dark else I don’t last two weeks. I had a couple of minor speeches during the time, and I got drunk for them; not drunk to the point of making mistakes, but drunk to the point of appearing bent out of shape, no leader for a nation: a tired, defeated man. A week before the speech, I went swimming with one of my childhood friends whom I’d not seen for tens of years. We had a great time sans the reminder that my bodyguard units were only there to ensure that I could die. I gave my friend a hug at the end of the swimming session, something entirely out of character. Not many people hug the president.
The morning of, I shook before I had my first cup of coffee. I looked at a brief of relevant news that my secretary prepares for me; I retained nothing. My eyes skimmed over the same line again and again. I was, for the second time in two weeks of dream-time, lost in the void. I was suspended between being the face of the biggest lie in the history of man and my life closing into nothingness, most things unchanged, what would appear to be a malicious other-party trying to attack our Western Democracy. An innocent man would be arrested as a scapegoat, and the internal excommunications would make his arresters torture him as if he was an assassin. I threw up on my lap, then told my secretary to fetch a cigarette. It took her over a half an hour, and, when she came back, the smell of vomit had permeated everything, and my lap was covered in a crust. I hadn’t moved an inch. On receiving the threat, I had gotten rid of all the pictures of my family in my office, temptations to not get shot.

1/2

I had a dream. A politician, I, banding and bandaging a nation with a wound that would require stitching; my enemy, a nonsensical ethnic elite, was the opposition to the healing of the country, and, against my best efforts, they extorted and abused, a mafia of a people. And I, I was going to stop them, to oust them, to bring out the dark secrets that could disband the fascist state that they kept us in, I being the figurehead of democracy, appearing in power, and trying to seize it by opening my mouth to all of this. And they threatened me: in two weeks, when I’m next giving a major speech, I’m not to say anything out of line, for there will be an array of rifles aimed at my head. It was surreal, and I was a void for the next day of dream-time, trying to silently convey my appreciation for all my loved ones, unknowing of my fate and to remain in the dark else I don’t last two weeks. I had a couple of minor speeches during the time, and I got drunk for them; not drunk to the point of making mistakes, but drunk to the point of appearing bent out of shape, no leader for a nation: a tired, defeated man. A week before the speech, I went swimming with one of my childhood friends whom I’d not seen for tens of years. We had a great time sans the reminder that my bodyguard units were only there to ensure that I could die. I gave my friend a hug at the end of the swimming session, something entirely out of character. Not many people hug the president.

The morning of, I shook before I had my first cup of coffee. I looked at a brief of relevant news that my secretary prepares for me; I retained nothing. My eyes skimmed over the same line again and again. I was, for the second time in two weeks of dream-time, lost in the void. I was suspended between being the face of the biggest lie in the history of man and my life closing into nothingness, most things unchanged, what would appear to be a malicious other-party trying to attack our Western Democracy. An innocent man would be arrested as a scapegoat, and the internal excommunications would make his arresters torture him as if he was an assassin. I threw up on my lap, then told my secretary to fetch a cigarette. It took her over a half an hour, and, when she came back, the smell of vomit had permeated everything, and my lap was covered in a crust. I hadn’t moved an inch. On receiving the threat, I had gotten rid of all the pictures of my family in my office, temptations to not get shot.

Walking up to the podium, life in strips or segments or something disconnected that I was to glue together how I would choose, but the glue dries instantly. Sweating, I swallowed a baseball, coughed, the immediate audience quiet and ready to be disappointed.