You want to know what fucked up things I liked to do?
For starters…I loved to walk over to the person I had just shot and stick my finger in the bullet hole, pull it out and smell it.
Smelled like pussy to me.
After the duel I’d go home and jerk off.
My name isn’t important and the time that I existed in means nothing. The only thing that was important was that I was the greatest dueler in all the land.
Before that I was one of your regular dick heads with a name like Greg or Fred or Jim or whatever you wanted it to be.
I worked in a rat maze of cubicles, pretending that what I did had some sort of meaning.
But, it was a dead zone. A place filled with graveyard dirt. But, you all know about those places and those people.
I want to tell you about something that you don’t know.
Places that you’ve never seen.
People that you’ve never met.
Like following Alice down the rabbit hole, I want you to follow me down the bullet hole.
I want to tell you about life, and I most definitely want to tell you about death.
Welcome to my dream.
Now, if you think this story is about guns…better put this book down and grab whatever guns and ammo type magazines are under your mattress and jerk off to those, cause this isn’t about guns…of course guns were used in the majority of the duels…and a wide variety of guns from ancient to modern were used.
But, as far as I’m concerned a gun is a gun…some shoot faster…some shoot straighter…some are small…some are big…
Now I should also mention, that if you think this story is about guns as a metaphor for my dick…then you most definitely need to reach under that mattress of yours and pull out a different sort of magazine to use with your vaseline!
Now let’s take this a step-further…it’s time people stopped letting others spoon feed them and started using their fucking imaginations again.
So, here’s a little experiment, what do you see when you read the word…
There we go. Wasn’t too hard was it? Didn’t have to travel too deep into your imagination did you? So every time I say the word gun, all you have to do is imagine the gun that comes to your mind.
Got it? Get it? Good.
Next topic…I lived in the city affectionately known as Dog Shit…it had a real city name, but we never used it.
After dueling became popular again and part of the culture, the intellectuals said we were shooting each other as a means “to freedom” and “and it was through this physical death that the ego would also die and that the birth of a new society would begin.”
People scoffed at that last statement…but I agreed with it.
I agreed with it as a set of words placed neatly…side by side with each other. Those words looked so pretty I framed them and put it in my bathroom…and every time I defecated I stared at it with affection.
The beautiful part about dueling was that things like words…written or spoken…were useless.
In the act of turning and reaching for that gun, you began to think…
Stray thoughts led to…
Stray emotions led to …
…being shot in the fucking throat!
Made for great entertainment for the spectators though.
Did you know that a man that is killed by a bullet to the heart, dribble’s semen out of his penis?
Some shit, some piss…but some cum? How do I know this?... Because I checked.
What happened after a person died, fascinated me in the beginning.
In those days, once you were dead your body was quickly taken away.
Sometimes you could go to a funeral and there would be an open casket, but those bodies and faces were embalmed. Faked to look alive.
In the early days, there would be no spectators and no witnesses either.
Just you and the other dueler.
So I took advantage after they died…I’d walk over…if it was a woman I’d take my clothes off, feel her breasts, put my finger in her pussy.
If it was a man I’d touch the tip of his penis…I’d cup his balls.
A couple of times the men would have hard ons…and I would masturbate them until they came.
My experiments might be a bit fucked up and shocking to you, they might even be deemed criminal in your eyes.
But, to me my experiments were necessary.
My state of mind…in those times.
For this is not about the present, but about the past.
There’s been other books written about the past…other books written by other duelers, written by observers…written by academics.
But I was the greatest dueler in all the land.
I was the best, and I survived to tell the tale.
The way I saw.
The way it was.
JESUS MURPHY I NEED TO READ ME MORE OF THAT...right?...yeah...maybe...okay...anyway...
after spending the last decade in george clooney's armpit hair our hero is ready to come out and face the world...what i meant to say was that i answered the door the other day in nothing but my wife's tight purple yoga pants and my mouth filled with chocolate.