On an endless night of nauseating desperate lonely lust (“the lonely lust of devildom”), a sneering voice spoke inside a sick man’s mind: “GOODNESS? Fuck that, it’s nothing to do with goodness, it’s a LACK OF COURAGE. You wouldn’t have the FORCEFULNESS to drag that unspeakable feminist bitch inside, tie her hands back with her bra and fuck her. I know you fantasize it. I know she does – she told me herself. I know her inside out – there’s no reason you’d want to ‘respect’ that hypocritical slut.”
Jack Cinammon, deranged, was on his knees in the corner of the tiny bathroom, head swimming, staring at the fungus whose folds billowed out of the rotten corner where the moisture pooled. A vagina, it was – Jack swayed as he leaned his face, brows knitted in absurd concentration, closer to it – a vagina swimming in and out of focus, a vagina with luxurious folds in rich cream and beige.
Jack sat on his heels and stared at it, stumped by the miraculousness and marvel of God’s creation, of this beautiful and nauseating creature – creature? a fungus was most definitely not a vegetable, Jack knew, or thought he knew, or perhaps he was imagining it. Perhaps it was an aggregation of slime molds, an organism preparing to break apart into its component cells, each one of which would crawl off in a separate direction (some would devour each other) until it was time to gather together and meld again for purposes of reproduction.
“The sick is in your mind,” echoed a dismissive voice in a Russian accent.
