The Soothsayer
"It is well enough that people of the nation do not understand our banking and monetary system. For if they did, I believe there would be a revolution before tomorrow morning."
― Henry Ford
Frime: It's that filmy grime on every condiment bottle, in every greasy spoon. You feel it when you grab ketchup at Waffle House; when you wrap your sweaty palm around a syrup dispenser at IHOP. Frime is impervious to cleaning solution ― including water hot as a dripping pussy.
Frime should not be confused with Gilm: the grimy film on your dick, after you've cum, and fallen asleep. This crusty substance is easily dissolved with H2O.
Frime was covering Mike Oxhard's bawdy bayonet, but neither blonde stripper cared. In fact — here in the bowels of the Vegas swing club — the pair of princesses were fighting over his shaft, the way youthful siblings brawled over dad's latest Playboy in the '70s.
"It's mine, bitch!" the tall trailer tart trumpeted.
"Fuck you, cunt!" the petite pussy possessor promulgated. "This thing belongs to me!"
"I saw it first―!"
"I touched it first!"
Mike realized, in the Matrix, other guys were paying excessively for lap dances from these two. Here, in reality, Oxhard hadn't shelled a shekel, and both damsels were drooling over his dong.
At the opposite edge of the mattress, a school of single males — cock zombies, if you will — creeped toward the women.
Of course experience had helped our hero find this doorway to debauchery, but it had been the Soothsayer who'd picked the lock. Mike had been upstairs at the sex shack, scouting a couple putting on a show, when the chestnut man wandered in ― reeking of BelAirs ― asserting, "You'll want to head downstairs to the dungeon."
And so, came the voice within his head.
A flash of light, and Oxhard was suddenly in a strange hotel room. Based upon the view of the Bellagio out the window, he deduced Caesars.
A pack of bronchial bullets hit the coffee table, spinning to a stop. From his vantage point — adjacent the accommodation's hypoallergenic mattress — Mike read the brand on the container: BelAir 100's.
"Do they even make those, anymore?" his mind sprinted. It didn't matter. Oxhard knew "he" had arrived.
Ochre, Naugahyde fingers brought the hearse hastener to the puce man's lips. Lighting it in one swift move, the Soothsayer achieved insertion of the cigarette, and ignition of such ― via match ― all with one hand.
A pull off the sick man's spear, and the room became Pier 39 on the foggiest night.
Oxhard could barely see his cock, as it prepared to probe the ingress of yet another naughty naiad.
Mike wondered why the couple — apparently a wanton Web connection — wasn't asphyxiated by the fumes. It was as if they hadn't noticed the solid haze blanketing everything, nor the russet man standing in the corner, creating it.
"When all possibilities are exhausted," croaked the Soothsayer, "ask yourself what is left."
Sweat clouding his vision, Oxhard grandiloquently queried, "What the fuck―?!"
"What is left?!" the mahogany man repeated.
Thicker than Oprah's thighs, Mike glanced about. "Huh?" he verbosely replied, thanks to six years of wasted existence, known as college.
"What is left?!?" the pillar of profundity reiterated.
A pause, and our hero looked left to the dresser beside the bed, nanoseconds prior to piercing pussy.
The bureau was the aftermath of a diabetes victim's annual intake. One encounters fewer needles, when both their feet fall asleep, than were piled atop the nightstand.
"Intravenous drug addicts?!" Oxhard concluded.
Fearing for his health, Mike feigned a text from his corporate captors. Asserting he was desperately needed at "work," he dressed and departed, narrowly circumventing disaster.
Oxhard referred to the cinnamon savant as the Soothsayer, even though he wasn't certain the guy existed. Besides himself, nobody ever noticed this enigma, and the mystery man was never the topic of conversation. Was this sepia sage solely a chimera; a mental fabrication, thanks to a Night Gallery addiction?
Another burst of brightness, and another unfamiliar locale.
"If a woman cums in the forest, but there's nobody around to hear her, does she make a sound?" the Soothsayer questioned.
"What?!" Mike mentally responded, unsure what he was listening to. It was like changing the radio station, hearing Cardi B's Bodak Yellow for the first time, and wondering if the song was a joke, or if whomever produced it had been tone deaf.
"Who cares? All that matters is that she cums. Regimes will rise, and regimes will fall. Throughout, the women must continue to cum," the seasoned strip of fruit leather elucidated, carcinoma candle dangling from his crusty lips, as he smoked in the shadows. "Once the women stop cumming...the seas will boil."
Oxhard paused, as the brunette welfare recipient he was screwing — amid somebody else's gilm-coated apartment — grunted out a blue collar orgasm on his cock.
More blinding illumination, and yet another hotel room.
Mike stepped back from the bed, where a blindfolded blonde was giving him more head than cannibals bequeath on birthday celebrations.
"Aren't you gonna take your shoes off?!" a nude, horny hubby ― who was stroking a protrusion resembling a thrice-burnt Chihuahua tongue ― queried.
"Take your fucking shoes off, man!" the incensed idiot frantically pointed at our hero's boots, as if they were overlooked rubble at Chernobyl. All the while, his naked wife sucked more than a movie adaptation of Anderson Cooper 360.
Unclothed, save for his fuck boots, our hero was leisurely guiding his cock into the woman's awaiting maw.
In the corner, the Soothsayer looked on, inhaling his lung candy.
"Who are you?" Oxhard mentally questioned the brown man.
"I am famous, yet nobody knows me," replied his inner voice.
"What?! How the hell is that possible?"
"Take your...fucking shoes off...motherfucker," the methed-out husband's voice faded.
"I am a member of the Blue Man group," responded the Soothsayer. "I am the voice telling you to, 'Wait!' when you push the walk button at intersections. I am that which informed you 'You've got mail' on AOL. Famous, but nobody knows me."
"Your...goddamned...shoes," the drugged douche bag drowned into binary code, somewhere non-existent.
Didn't this imbecile berating him see the wisdom in human form among them?!
"We've been brainwashed," continued the Soothsayer. "We never ask why ― president after president ― the shit pool keeps getting deeper. If all these presidents are so inept at their job, why do we keep voting them into positions of power?"
"Well, I―"
"It's the same reason people visit Vegas to fuck, and you reside here. It's why you focus on the Numbers ― and the adventures that come with them ― while others blindly chase 'careers' that don't exist, and once a decade, fulfill a fantasy. Because we're indoctrinated to believe this paradigm is real.
As such, the aspirations and goals of most equate to nothing."
Mike was listening intently, the shrieking husband forgotten, as the miffed moron ejected Oxhard from the hotel room.
And so, our leading man's tutelage commenced.
Again with the annoying flash, and again with another foreign location.
"Go to the light," the Soothsayer mandated, amid a disheveled room of the Budget Suites off Trop'. Our protagonist could tell that's where they were, thanks to the Wild Wild West sign out the window.
" 'The light?' " Mike questioned, fingering the greasy hole of a Popeye's Chicken manager, while feasting on her anus, atop a bed covered in dirty stuffed animals.
"You'll know what I mean when you see it. Just remember, go to the light," the skilled soul repeated. With that, the entity was gone.
Hours later, Oxhard found himself inside a room at the Luxor, tongue-deep inside a nanny from the corn-crazed Midwest, as hubby uploaded a stream to YouPorn.
Limping home — post-coitus — Mike gazed back on the black, pyramidal hotel in his wake. Searing light emitted from the apex of the casino, cleaving the darkness.
"Go to the light," the Soothsayer's words repeated over in his mind, like some catchy corporate jingle you can't forget.
And so it would go — day after day, night after night. The blinding flash, followed by his inner voice emitting some cryptic phrase. Moments later, he'd find himself in a strange locale, atop an even stranger woman.
"An apple a day...," the Soothsayer offered up the platitude.
The next Oxhard knew, he was at New York New York ― the Big Apple ― locked into the haunches of a willing wife with a proclivity for toys the size of an Oldsmobile.
"It's good to be king!" the Soothsayer predicated.
Before sunset, Mike's balls were banging against the shiny, stretched sphincter of somebody's great aunt, at the Excalibur.
Unless Oxhard was reading into this, the Soothsayer was omniscient. At the swing club, the diviner knew what was going on in every room, at every moment.
It was that lucid whispering in his ear, while he was fucking a Repeater: "I know this feels great, but you've been with her seven times. Why don't you hop off the ferris wheel at Pripyat, and wander into the next room?
There's a newbie there, dispensing more handjobs than an all-commission rub 'n tug."
When Mike would hesitate, it would be that nagging voice reminding him, "You're heading to a garage sale, expecting to buy a garage. You're on the wrong track. She's on the other side of this wall, no more than four feet from you, as I speak."
Moments later, he'd be receiving superlative manual sex from a woman who resembled Louise Jefferson ― of The Jeffersons fame.
And then, one night ― mid-gangbang at The Orleans ― the Soothsayer ran dry of BelAirs. The umber man stood, professing he'd be heading to the lobby for reinforcements. He didn't return, and Oxhard hadn't heard from him since...
Or had he?
Three months subsequent, Mike found himself at a crosswalk, on his way to an orgy at the Rio. His mind focused on pending pussy, he stepped into traffic.
At once, that familiar voice from the pedestrian squawk box screamed, "Wait!"
Heeding the warning, Oxhard lurched back out of the street.
Immediately, a taxicab ran a red light, jumped the curb ― where he'd previously stood ― and demolished a bus stop no more than 20 feet from him.
Mike caught his breath with more difficulty than someone with no arms would catch a fly ball. Had he even pressed the pedestrian signal—?!
And that's when he saw it; an empty void. Where one would expect to find a crosswalk switch, there was nothing but a vacant hole — some miscreant having stolen the metal knob.
"I am the voice telling you to, 'Wait!' when you push the walk button at intersections."
It was at that moment our hero knew the Soothsayer wouldn't only continue to be with him, but was him, and had been all along.
— authored by Hugh Mungus; a.k.a. Mike Oxhard
http://blogs.dickinson.edu/copenhagen/2009/11/pick_one_or_the_othe/comment-page-1/
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