House-Mouse Cock -- The Adventures of Sex Ableton (3 more) ----

Three more House-Mouse Cock Adventures
(from my dead cousin's journals):



7) Far Away - Puberty - Fingers - Plunger - Martin

And far away in a different time and place but linked magically to the primordial anarchy (the fabled mass of wine, bomb, and blood) Sex Ableton was going through puberty. Yes, Sex Ableton, the geek-frog-kid everyone had abused so mercilessly all through school and into his tenure at the PPSDIC, found himself, at the age of 29, finally in the throes of puberty.

And he was confused. Bewildered. Sometimes he'd dash from his cubicle and entrench himself on the heroic seat of the sub-assistant-quasi-proto-
never-gonna-be-PPSDIC's toilet and suck on his small fat fingers.

"Things are happening to me," Sex screamed. "Things are happening."

The janitor, Bluesy (former green beret), leapt in with a plunger.

Seth grovelled and licked Bluesy's boots.

Bluesy shoved the plunger down on Sex's head.

And declared: "You are my unicorn now, baby."

And he pranced around like a forest aboriginal.

"From now on, baby, you will call me Martin the Sword. And you will never ever ever say anything bad about the immortal Pablo Neruda because he was perfect. Just fucking perfect."

But Sex was out of it. The plunger had sucked all the blood up into his head.

And he was super-dreaming. An extremely delicate and rare, bright crystalline vision:

A battlefield. Skulls adorned with butterflies. Orange and blue. And horses in their death throes. (a kind of puberty also). And Sex parades through like an Angel of Death. No timid House-Mouse Cock now! He leans down, one by one, and, caressing their ears together between his left hand, slits each throat with his right.




8) Bored - Locked in - The Mirror - Clean Up - A Dentist - And, again,... And, again...

Sex grew bored and mad.

The great sea-cunts he'd sailed over, adventured in (on jet-skis, and with scuba, and on the elegant deck of a replica of the Santa Maria), and bubbled and pissed in no longer satisfied his enormous but shifting and sometimes shiftless appetite.

He ordered his staff to lock him in his room and to pass his meals in through a prison-style window. Only once a week would they be allowed in to clean things up. And this was a job they grew to dread.

After one particularly nasty clean-up two of the cleaners hanged themselves in the orange-tree orchard.

And, so, Sex had to pay outrageous sums of money for simple cleaners. No matter. He was bored. and mad.

And money was no object. The House-Mouse Cock Consultancy Co was flourishing. Like a dragon on fire. No, not like a dragon: a squirrel glutting itself in cicada season.

Hanging a couple feet over the exact center of his bed (Sex had a kind of Greek or Egyptian mind) was an over-sized oval mirror. And fringed like the sun. Kind of like one you might put in a budgie's cage.

Sex spent all of his waking hours (and he hardly slept) in front of the mirror: admiring, bewitched, bemired, besotted, begotten and rebegotten. On fire. In love. Endlessly lost in a kind of cocaine paradise: staring into the eyes and body of a magnificent creature: himself: Sex Ableton: Adonis: Lord of the seasons: Of the flowers and bees: Of the king's ransomed knees: A star's blue light.

And Sex spoke to this creature. Touched it. Stroked it. Kissed it. Snuggled up against it. Preened it. Chirped to it. Moaned at it. Tried to feed it. Drooled on it. Smeared shit on it. Masturbated on to it. Collapsed against it, sobbing.

The problem, you see, is that Sex, in his attentions, beheld and lavished himself on not a perfect, unchanging, constant creature but on a distorted and constantly deteriorating and degrading image. And the more this sacred figure was fondled, abused, sinking, debased, the more frenzied and renewed and manic Sex's attentions became. It was a vicious cycle.

He ripped his hair out and rubbed it against it. He rubbed his balls against it. Stood on his now-bald head and rubbed his balls against it. Rubbed them raw. Completely raw. It was gone. The creature was gone. And Sex cursed his balls. Whipped them. Rubbed salt into them. And vinegar. and garlic. And had a fine meal. Of his balls. There in his madness.

And he was reinvigorated. By his balls. Flowing in his blood now: his balls.

He tore his teeth out and smeared the blood on it. It was gone.

He lay down in anguish and howled. It was gone.

He sprang up and assailed it. The glass crashed down on him. It was gone.

He devoured the glass. Whistled and howled. Kept touching his face. It was gone.

He curled up in a ball.

Smashed through the iron gates of life.

Nothing helped.

It was gone.

And, so, at the end of the week the cleaners, wearing their masks and gloves, tiptoed in gingerly. One hauled Sex into a livestock shower and exploded him with a hose (the type prisons and institutions love to use. I'd love to use one too. Wouldn't you?)

Then he was fastened into a great pink chair. And a dentist was brought in. And a hair doctor. And a hair stylist. Big fat women with pliers and blowtorches. Canaries and napkins. A postcard from Verona.

But, Sex just stared into space. No thoughts at all. No feelings. No Mozart, or Beethoven. No Clockwork Orange (so, what's it going to be then, eh?). Nothing.

Finally he was dumped back in his room.

And, after a spell, out of his sad-curled crouch (the type millipedes die in) he peered up between his fingers and beheld in the high heavenly arched distance his own image. And his body flooded with sugar.

He flashed up on to the bed dripping like syrup and pulled the pristine, immaculate God-self-image against him.

And so on. And so on.


9) Exclusives - Partners - Bribes - Absorptions

The House-Mouse Consultancy Co partnered up (at first) with vendors. (Ball-glue vendors. Ball-strap vendors. Enhancement vendors. Psychologocockalists. etc. etc.)

The House-Mouse Co had several 1-900 numbers. Soothing voices sending you "no obligation" videos. Treatment options. The suavest voices in the world. And with substance too.

With a variety of treatment choices ("ways to leaf," the brochures stated) the House-Mouse Consultancy Co could claim without the shadow of a niggling doubt that yr cock could tower up an additional one to two millimeters. And in some cases just as much, if not more so, in girth.

And then of course there was always the expensive but guaranteed HMCMPOC and this of course included the popular Owl-Three-Step.

And Sex knew first-hand (eye in the rubble) that all you had to do was mention the Owl-Three-Step and ANY House-Mouse Cock would stutter and grovel in a mad got-their-panties-in-a-knot frenzy.

Sex arranged increasingly-favorable commission structures with all these "partners." And if strict, by-the-book commissions weren't to be had, Sex asked for and received kickbacks. Huge filthy kickbacks.

Sex was a natural. Bloomed. Blossomed. Arched his back. Wolfed down the moon. It pulsed through his blood. Burst from his cock. "The House-Mouse Cock is howling moon-cum" he giggled to himself.

Later on Sex absorbed all his partners. Just threatened to cut them off. That's all he did. Just threatened them. And that was that. Cat in the hat.

The "partners," you see, had no other customers. All their business came from the House-Mouse Cock Co. (There was no law that said you had to buy from the House-Mouse Cock Co's partners. In fact, how would the average House-Mouse Cock even know? But it was so--- like everyone in Mexico has to exchange their money for gasoline at a government run Pemex station, everyone, globally, bought from, directly or indirectly, from the House-Mouse Cock Co empire-monster.)

In short, they were all assimilated. Like krill down into a whale.

And Sex knew what to do. He raped these poor bastards. Stripped them down completely. And then tossed them on to a junk heap where he and Red would indulge in the most macabre and deviant couplings.

It was the size of Kentucky, this junk heap. In fact it was Kentucky. And toothless bango players (millions of them) flocked to egg our heroes on. To rile up their lusts. And levitate their busts. And oil their nuts. And paper their butts. And flavor their ruts. And purple their fruts.

And, Sex, stood up over these bango players and baptised them in his filth. And they were his fresh-faced recruits (sort of, anyways). They became his army. His thugs. His goons. His demons itching at the bit to be unleashed: mad toothless bango-playing horse-recruit inflamers!

But most of the time, to tell the truth, Sex and Red just sat together sipping milk shakes. Enjoying sunsets. And eating each other's ticks.