The Furry Fury and the Crimson Cunt

Reads: 97  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
An attempt at explaining modern society.

Submitted: September 02, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 02, 2016

A A A

A A A


The Furry Fury and the Crimson Cunt

By

Dr. Tudor

 

A war looms upon us, nay nation to nation but man versus human, moreover women pitted against violent men and even kinsmen killing nurslings, toddlers, puberties and adolescents alike, slaying and sensing the spectrum of smells and ages, from the freshness of incunabula to the pungent, sad scent of maturity invading the nostrils long after the passerby crawled the trail of lackluster liberty, rushing to an inescapable end, coerced through an involuntary beginning.  Such struggle evolves forth from greed ascended amongst all sins, through selfishness as the prime source of society, and as a progression of evolutionary egotism.  Profounder further or perhaps shallower, conceit has constructed our cradle of civilization and vanity thus birthed from subjectivism of souls henceforth elevated beyond the harmony of minds.  Empires from the new world and republics of the old continents, thy fight for self-aggrandizing won not, it rather steered your crowds of hysteric jingoists to suicide.  The hunger hitherto perceived in our souls, emotions’ nest, was therefore assuaged by the poisonous, thorny fruits of thy relentless, oh so deceivingly decreed labor of love and freedom, though fairness absent.

Thus much the sun god Ra of the Egyptians, foremost of the meaningful deities and supreme sovereign of mud huts, reviled the people of the earth that he bequeathed them, in a divine democracy, three deceitful although perceptually pleasing paths or religions.  The men of the sand were granted temporary wealth flowing in sable straits from below their dry dirt and everlasting rage to accompany this mammon.  The Far East received the gift of soft beguiling and the malicious spirit of dissatisfaction well concealed behind a grinning façade, one prejudiced of strangers whereas seeking advantage from them, accepting benefit in exchange for pleasure that the outsiders could not anymore attain within their own ranks.  The occidental folk lost their way and from the life of Christ they recalled the suffering so much more than the kindness ergo the sole aim of many worshipers turned to revenge.  Theirs became the manner of the modern society from the Greek republic to the New World empires of finance, from Plato to Wolff or perhaps to the silliness of Rand, moreover two millennia of apparent dominance brought along the arrogance of piety and the illusion of the perfect pathway, the one to be taught in lyceums and eventually to be oppressed upon others.  Thy idols of the olden times, heavenly republics of Hellenes and Rome, fleeting French empires of ostentation and golden glamour, kingdoms of calculated and rubbishy British inferno, daft democracies of dollars, even righteousness can be tyranny and self-righteousness foists the supreme coercion of all. 

For all the rest of humankind, the skeptics, sinners, thinkers, atheists, the ones drowning in a woman’s wetness, suffocating in solitude, desiring further, nothing remained to share from the God’s bequest, yet nothingness was truly, at that age of impermanence, the intention of individual existence, therefore whoever received such oblivion from divinity, wisdom and peaceful acceptance of being came along with it.  A fleeting sojourn into reality we mortal multitudes are, gravity coerced, earthbound comets with bodies of ice and tails of fire, nay we transmute to foggy forms of thinking matter, our loud voices screaming, from when we comprehend our transitory nature.  Is love, or hatred, maybe wisdom or else offspring the riposte to demise? One does not know, only through hope one elevates one’s thought, solitary, singular way to death is via vitae.

Forthwith as I, the last of the latest, still walk alone along this unforgiving axis of time, akin battles though perpetrated with different ordnances bewilder my sight, similar struggles annihilating youth and nourishing the cruelty of elders penetrate my comprehension.  Such abundance of loathing was given to mortals by deity, the chalice of discontent, the one that kissed the Christ’s lips last, has become so full that desperate men can only split its excessive burden with each other.  With such allotment of anger cometh blood shedding, the sacrifice of life’s vital liquid, and the forceful separation of one pound of flesh we all owe to worshipping faith or logic.  But fear not, or fear only, through either path of reason or religion only death awaits us.  Thus empty existence the normal life appears being, terse intermission between void and absolute amnesia, hence useless presence is time on this hellish sphere unless the ending of existence is beyond contemporary comprehension.  Understand yet again, you people of this world along with the tabula rasa of the realm before birth, more so the spirits of multiple possible afterlives, the only destiny bestowed as yet upon us is either killing or suicide. 

Giveth that the full story of any creature is the conduit to crime whereas the legend of life is the only imaginary salvation, here cometh the tale of a murder.  

His name was Salem and he was a Saudi, an immature man bred in a desert laden with gaudy, sprung from an adobe absent from the rest of the realm, a soil burdened by a modernity of steel and glass constructed upon bricks of manure, dusty dirt offspringing children raised not cultivated, grown yet not developed, a land away from what one cogitated as contemporary civilization, apart from me the one alone, distant from you the lover I never encountered but always carried in my dreams, so far thou not in space but time from women laughing after being analyzed, plus men doubting gods in public squares.

How can a creature of spirit spread roots in the desert, where the biological moisture of existence is suffocated by dry sands, the breathing dampness is buried in dust, the moving moistness is dried up, aged prematurely, ignored as we disremembered our parents and we will be one day neglected, verve turned to powder, yet first sculpted in the delicate, soft surfaces of contemporary seeming artistic creations, then shortly followed by the moribund, decaying sparkle of spirit found in everything organic becoming brittle, easily breaking in the weak but feverish hands of any child, the wild, violent, animalistic brood of humanity, primordial, hateful youth we spawn, we are, we remain and later in life we try to conceal, our childish behavior the only proof Darwin ever needed, our lovely little offspring entering this earth covered in a pellicle of blood, vile bile, lovely little angels encircled by a halo of squeals and crying without tears?

A receptacle of rage the Arab raised and therefore a penalty in blood had to be extracted out of his own suicidal self ultimately, foremost from all the imaginary opposites a true man of faith is required to entertain.  His wish was not the desire of survival from Schopenhauer, nor the will to power of Nietzsche, neither the impulse to metamorphose as a transcendence from here to higher hereafter so exposed by Tudor, but rather stood identical to the arrogant, all too human yearning of future remembrance while violently expressing the disapproval of society as the dusk of deity, the dawn of humanity.  At that late nocturnal hour, Salem laid pensively in his contemporary carriage, wondering and waiting, tense like a fully drawn medieval longbow with nowhere to release its arrow but his own chest, and angry the manner in which so many Moors verge being.  His hands were forcefully clutching the genuine leather and faux wood steerage, whilst brown and purple, fissured, lips were letting out an amalgam of blasphemy and prayers in the tongue of Khayyam but absent his joie de vivre, an echo of vocal resonances kneaded with beads of bitter saliva, punctuated from time to time by a wrongly placed “hell” or “damnation” or even a misunderstood but properly resonating “halation”, with their aim as obscure as the quest for discovering dim matter. 

“Oh Heathen,” the god residing in the narrow and hot halls of Salem’s mind muttered, “thou are to blaspheming what Whitmore meant to monotonous yet incessant poetry, verses reciting the docks, the workers, the whores, his world, my marveling about it, a city that was and never will it be that sane, the same again.”

“Whitman, I am not,” the Arad answered, “thou Walter is rather an adversary of mine, and thusly bones and fat are nemeses to my madness, biological blandness prevailing over the inevitable insanity of intelligence.  Transformed into a poem his walk through the streets was while I will become a sin, following expiry there is none left of man, mere work or words, if fortune or creation were to be there, and not for eternity, infinity is utterly devoid of life, nothing remains to observe, relish, bring sadness or ensue a trivial emotion since eyes and mind will lack their presence in full permanence of time, ears will not hear noise, nose bereft of scents will suffer, fingers will grasp at void, touch nothing.”

As Allah gazed upon that twilight with omnipresence and indifference, exposing the rightful, endless erection of divinity, the deep dusk and Salem’s blighting inked the perfect tableau of the enraged Islamic faith and its tribes of carnage, the black and crimson colors of baseless rage smeared across the nocturnal sky, obstructing the moon, making the satellite appear bloody, cruel then vengeful and prone to collapse into its planet, another absurd, useless, blemished empty surface in an equally bare universe, an expanding eloquent emptiness existing without real reason.  

“Throw a shoe at La Luna and perchance that circumventing orb will become a round, curvy virgin of the prophet, a bloody tinge of sunlight edging the pockmark of its first penetration by a celestial body, a dusty vagina willing to welcome you, Salem.  You moron Moor, thou will have your vestals here on earth and also in the gardens of paradise,” Allah appeared to utter to Salem, thou this modern Othello was mad again, crazy with words and emotions derived from paradise and inferno, in the midst of an endless dialogue with inexistent gods and imaginary humans.  The heaven of Islam, Jannah was just as factual to him as the dark and sometimes dangerous alley of the west where destiny had carried his travels, the occidental roads paved with false harmony, apparent armistice and assured superficiality, no angel but anger lying in wait to greet him, his own frustration, as deep as an Eastern European whore, setting a trap for mollification of malice as mutilation, nullification of desires, confidences of cursory character crushed by simple reality, the principles of physics pitted against nature, as it governs us, it betrays us, opposing the within to without, tearing apart limb from logic.  Still, the young bald eagle wearing a white turban was yearning for civilization to offer a nourishing crumb, not venomous morsel, refused yet hopeful he was a man in love with a rejecting ethos.

“Am I a lunatic,” he wondered “or is my lament as down to earth as the words following?”

“My mind is a magma of madness, cooled by the air flowing from lungs exhausted by tar and tobacco, over vocal chords, instruments of such malign music, a metamorphic fluid crystalizing into sounds of mouth, words as minerals assembled and mixed together to form the sharp cuneiform crystal of sentences like stones thrown at the enemy, barbaric brute of contemporary civilization, while continuous cohorts of characters concocted by a crazed creator cometh, depart, go nowhere, and through it all I have become the Pollock of prose, the Sartre of sacrifice, the Leonardo of letters, the Michelangelo of melancholy, the Copernicus of character, the nihilistic Nietzsche, the symbol of syllabi.  I love therefore I am, I loathe therefore I am not, and if I were not me, I would pray to me, while now I am my own prey.”

“The Pollock of prose?”, Allah asked with his dark brown eyes partially obscured by a baseball cap carrying the letters INRI.

To be continued .............


© Copyright 2017 Dr. Tudor. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

More Literary Fiction Short Stories

Booksie 2017-2018 Short Story Contest

Booksie Popular Content

Other Content by Dr. Tudor

A lack of light

Short Story / Thrillers

The Furry Fury and the Crimson Cunt

Short Story / Literary Fiction

Popular Tags