Black Petroleum Stain

Picture a room filled with sexy women, naked and undulating in a way that indicates they are hot and ready for love. The women are beautiful in a diverse way. Whatever your ideal of female beauty is, she’s there. They look nice, they smell nice, you’re sure they’ll feel nice, too. Some of the women have name tags (it’s not clear how the tags are attached). You see Rita and Katrina, Civil Rights, Integrity, Diversity, Truth, Iraq, Compassion, Tolerance, Education, 911, Liberty, Justice, Equality, and Freedom, just to name a few. Aside from the name tags, it looks like your basic porn shoot, just absent the dicks.

Suddenly, a small band of naked, grossly overweight old men barge in, their bleached white, corpulent bodies rippling as they charge at the women, who are clearly startled, trying to maintain their composure and the passion they had been feeling just moments before, while trying to contain the dismay and horror inspired by these trolls.

The trolls have dicks that are so tiny they are nearly invisible beneath the revolting folds of flesh that cascade like great tubes of grease around each of their disgusting frames. Instead, all that can be seen where their balls should be is inflamed skin, a rash of bubbling sores oozing poisonous green and yellow puss, reeking of death. Their faces contorted in a shark-like rictus of unchecked indulgence, a feeding frenzy, they launch themselves at the women, groping and fucking any part they can lay their greedy little hands upon, smearing their diseases all over the untouched beauty of the women. Fat fingers still sticky from whatever they had been rolling in just before grasp the soft, clean limbs, pulling them into uncomfortable positions, soiling them, making the women wince and cry out.

The trolls are a paradox. Despite an obvious lack of good health and well being, many showing obvious signs of horrific diseases in full bloom and evidence of multiple surgeries, they have limitless energy when it comes to despoiling. They are relentless. You can hear them barking and swearing what alternately sounds like racoons growling and angry old men saying, “Go fuck yourself!”

The women suffer, and cannot move away. Their cries are muffled and they soon begin to fade. Their beauty slips away and their energy ebbs. These pinnacles of desirability slowly succumb to the diseases and the abuse the trolls have thrust upon them. They have no chance. No one comes to save them. They are abandoned.

In time, the ladies are all dead and the trolls reluctantly pull away, seemingly satiated. They lazily wipe congealed drool from their chins, absentmindedly scratch at the running sores and festering boils that blanket their bodies, their bald heads shining with the sweat of their ill-efforts. They look at one another and then gaze upon the corpses, flies buzzing around the dead that have already begun to decay.

For a moment, something like a glimmer of recognition seems to pass behind their eyes, almost as if they can see the horrible waste that they are and that they’ve caused in their disgusting rape of all that is good. They look at each other. They look back at all the destruction they’ve wrecked. They look at one another again, chuckle, and get right back to fucking things up, high-fiving and glad-handing each other all the way back to those decomposing corpses where they jump on and start fucking like there’s no tomorrow, their terrible industry casting up an almost tangible cloud of horrific stink, enveloping them and blanketing everything they touch with a slippery, black petroleum stain.


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