They Would Make You Pay To Eat Your Own Bowels If They Could

This is a piece that was serialized on Electronic Bomb, and was split quite well, thanks to my buddy Bentbird. Considering the man has the writing skills of an ape scraping red phosphorus from match sticks to help make his next batch of Krokodil, I have to say that I was quite truly impressed.

Still, some prefer their lumps and chunks in solid logs, so for those amongst you, enjoy! And if you have any feedback or criticisms, please feel free to e-mail me or contact me here through the blog. Thanks a ton, and stay scared!

They Would Make You Pay To Eat Your Own Bowels If They Could

By  Xtopher Jacques

The weather outside was of little consequence to the monsters in the boardroom, where the air was humid with blood. Here, four absolute criminals and an adult male of mixed ethnicity were carving up the world with a dull knife on a Thursday. Best day for it.

The criminals had earned their stripes, and the mixed was on the fast-track to being a diabolically fierce piece of shit in the months and years to come. They had all gathered to show each other one another’s cocks, hiding in portfolios and spreadsheets, and presentations. Almost entirely in presentations.

On basis of seniority, the mixed male went first. The first minute of his presentation wasn’t even heard: he was too nervous in this, his first attempt at a major account since he made partner three months ago, and the old crows in the room were all feverishly at work.

“Is he some kind of Samoan? I mean, what do you call them…Polynesians? Islanders? Tongans?”

“I wonder if his mother’s white or black…or both? Nah, she’s white…milk white, and that big black dick…”

“We should have vetted better.”

“Wish he had a little more Inuit in him. We haven’t been able to make any significant inroads with that community since people frowned on killing seals…”

Unfortunately for the best man in the room by default, his second minute included the phrase, “I feel like we could really do our clients a long-term service by simply presenting their best traits in an honest, straightforward dialogue that lacks finesse, tricks or fine print…”

The Big never left his seat, save to actually snap the bones of living, indigent children and drink their marrow, still warmed by the processes of respiration. So when he removed the sheath of human flesh covering his talon, pinned the Mixed Man to the cherry table and screamed for “the assholes down in Sodomy and Torture” to come collect this casualty of the Great Advertising Wars, the resulting shudder in the industry could be felt like an axe through the face.

Teeth never showed an ounce of trepidation before this moment. He actually had to clear his throat before getting up to show his dick to the others, a dead giveaway of cowardice lurking deep in the heart.

“OK, here’s the plan. First off, we’re going to say everything they do is organic. We don’t give a shit if it’s true, and they have a legal team, so…. Second, the commercials are going to be loaded up with xylophones, acoustic guitars and folksy gibberish. For the real Indie feel, we’re gonna stuff these ads balls-deep with squiggly lines to indicate action, thinking and stuff. And finally, we’re gonna have a woman doing yoga…”

“Yoga? Why? Isn’t it an ad for a car?” gasped the exasperated husk of the Mixed Man between expulsions of what seemed like excessive amounts of blood.

“Does it fucking matter, you shrill cunt of a man?! She’s gonna be doing some dumbfuck yoga pose with her face halfway in the sky. It’s gonna look like she’s sniffing God’s foot or something. Real cultish!”

Big never really liked Teeth, so the only sounds in the room after Teeth finally let loose this mortal coil were the gnashing of Outside the Box’s teeth and Kieran’s incessant clawing at the table. Both feverishly dreamed of getting the extra 15 square feet of space that made Teeth’s office such a prize.

Outside the Box was up next, and he was the first one to spark a wringing of the talons from Big, which was a huge tell in deciding where he was going to go on a program.

“Real simple here, folks. We’re going to have a close-up on the car, and then the camera’s going to pull back to show hundreds—no, thousands—of people looking at the car like a bear does a bag of meat, furiously masturbating and panting in a rhythmic drone that’ll be a subliminal message for ‘buy this car right now, kill your children if you must.’ I think it’ll be a real winner because it hits at the core of what we want people to do, which is to obsess over this car until their days of earning and longing are done.”

“Listen, Big!” shrieked Kieran from the ceiling. “Outside the Box has been raping and plagiarizing my ideas for years—which is fine—but I just don’t think we’re looking at the whole picture.” He adjusted his tie, a collection of virgin labia in a tasteful Windsor Knot. “I like the whole ‘subliminal message, furiously masturbating’ stuff that Box obviously stole from me.” Outside the Box hates little more in this world than when people shorten his name to “Box.” It gave him another reason to continue sharpening his blade.

“I feel like we need to have this stuff, sure, but we need to really grab the consumer by the belt-buckle and show them what they should be doing when they see a product. So we’ll start with the masturbation, and by the end, we’ll have people ripping the flesh from their bones and boiling their own heads in a self-collapsing, all-consuming F-5 whirlwind of fiery desire. They’ll be choking their mothers, making huts from the bones of the living and paying us so they can eat their own bowels. We have to make it real for these idiots nowadays. They want it, but we need to kill their minds with the question:  do you want it enough?”

“I have no words. Kieran…hell, we may not always see eye-to-eye, but you’re a fucking poet. I love that idea more than myself. That’s a first,” said Outside the Box with a muffled choking as he began his round of hidden-tooth fellatio upon Kieran in the congratulatory, respectful signature style of the firm. Eyes looking up, as was customary.

Big smiled as best he could, pulling his talon from the mass of Mixed Man to make arm gestures that would satisfactorily convey his pleasure with the firm’s Final Solution for the client’s needs. They ordered three boys to complement the feast now before them, and greedily devoured the remains of the fallen.

There are now two camps of thought at the firm. One camp believes that Teeth still haunts the 81st floor of the building, and the other knows that there was nothing left of him after The Feast that could haunt anything. The second camp will one day rape the first for their pensions, benefits and bonuses. One Thursday was all they needed to mark everyone forever.

***

Xtopher Jacques has a really hard time offering his writing as examples of his work on his Curriculum Vitae, but has to admit to somewhat enjoying the twisted look on prospective employers’ faces when he does offer something in his typical style. In needing to support his family, however, he does occasionally offer examples of his writing from his college days, when he could still write without profanity as a gnarled crutch. Contact him if you like at xtopherjacques@gmail.com, or maybe you’ll find him on Facebook.

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About xtopherjacques

I'm an unreliable narrator, which is supposed to be the fun of it. I'd imagine it's a lot more fun to be led off a cliff if it feels like a circus until it happens. Oh, I'm an average guy; I respirate and dream. Here, I'll talk a lot about both. There will likely be too much talk about bodily fluids of varying viscosities for one's liking, but I refuse to change that until it bores me. Thankfully, I also have healthy obsessions with foods (it might get weird), body washes and obscure media. I also talk a lot about my house being haunted and possessed, neither being true. All of those things should keep this all interesting enough. I sure hope so.

Posted on 03/11/2013, in Horror Links/Commentaries, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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