Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

Mostly rambles, few brambles

Upon Birthing Your Very Own Subterranean Nation-State Utopia

One of the first things you’ll think upon starting your new life underground is: “Boy, it’s crazy how I’m no longer welcome on the surface.” Though you had pleaded to be left for dead, the judge said the haunted wastelands would be too good for you and your public-safety-jeopardizing perversion. “Fiddlesticks,” you’ll say aloud now as the sun dips below the edge of your tunnel, giving you one final goodbye.

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Your shovel will be your only friend. Together, you and Scooper will plan to carve out an empire built on brotherhood, integrity, and decriminalizing all forms of sexually motivated arson. “Can’t you see it?” you’ll whisper with a titter to your new BFF, but, of course, he won’t see it, because Scooper’s a tactile learner.

Twenty sleeps into your new life, you’ll fantasize less about the ghoul gang you could have joined in the haunted wasteland. You’ll still be opening your eyes to complete darkness, though, and being all, “Oh. Right. Exiled from the surface.” You’ll still feel a little silly, but that, too, will be part of your new routine now whenever you’re starting a non-sleeping inning of digging and masturbating.

Scooper will be his usual manic self. Now, like every waking moment, he’ll be chattering away about how your whole trial was a set-up. You’ll feign interest, but mostly you’ll be trying to focus on force-feeding yourself dirt clumps for their nutrients and moisture before passing the slag in one of the stink burrows. Scooper will occasionally say he misses the sun. “You don’t think I miss the sun?” you’ll say to that non-listening shovel, snapping through your gritted teeth. “It’s a big fucking ball of fire — honestly I can’t think of anything more arousing.”

You’ll apologize for raising your voice and get back to digging, your hunger aching as you grow more desperate to find another vole hive or grub trove. After a few stiff minutes of silence, Scooper will chirp: “You know they all testified against you, your ‘surface-level friends.’” He’ll know exactly what he’s doing, picking at this wound, probably with that sick knowing smile pasted across his moon face. You’ll think of your friends, that life, that one cookout at Donahue’s: truly the worst cheeseburgers you’d ever eaten, but — my God — those were some highly erotic embers. Those smutty coals are what you’ll remember drooling over now, an involuntary moan simmering off your gritty lips. You’ll be so happy to have kept that one in your spank bank.

A crud cramp will eventually derail your vole hunt, so it’ll be time to squeeze in some light writhing and feebly pleasuring yourself before dehydration renders you unconscious. Scooper will still be at it, though, pitching fresh conspiracies. “Keep it down,” you’ll finally bark at him, “some people are trying to fuck themselves here!” He’ll crack that same tired line about getting a room, and you’ll reply, yet again, that you are in supreme privacy in what will eventually be your self-dug grave.

“Three-strikes, right,” Scooper will say, his voice taking on this condescending explanatory tone, “they couldn’t prove your second offense was sexually motivated, only that it was arson.” Sure, he’ll concede that you were caught red-handed on the third: defiant with the silos ablaze and your overworked, calloused hands literally covered in blood blisters. “They all testified against you — and for what, to save their own barns and hay silos?”

Memories of those blazing silos had usually been so kind, but it won’t be enough today. Frustrated and foggy, you’ll grab Scooper with both hands and bring his slender midsection down over your knee. He’ll be screaming now, a few fibers still connecting both halves of his snapped frame, but with one deft twist, you’ll sever them entirely. He’ll wail that he should have sided with your victims and that you never could have hacked it in a ghoul gang, but you won’t hear it. You’ll instead run the dry, twine-like pieces of your ex-BFF through your fingers, your sinister grin stretching further and further.

Maybe it’s hours, maybe it’s days later, but you’ll still be rubbing two fragments of Scooper together, his moon face and upper torso now cast off into one of the stink burrows. And, finally, after being teased by so many whiffs of smoke, the two twigs will spark to life. Your eyes will glow. You’ll scramble to cautiously feed the larger fragments of Scooper to the bewitching flames as your other hand goes to work.

Your fire will burn hot, though the dwindling oxygen is pretty hot too. The pleasures will soon wash over you in a crescendo as your consciousness leaves you and you’re left smiling, satisfied, and suffocated in your grand new utopia.

2 responses to “Upon Birthing Your Very Own Subterranean Nation-State Utopia

  1. Judy Alter June 9, 2021 at 12:32 pm

    You have a sick sense of humor; I love it.

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