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Know Not What They Do

Your mom was crying as she exited the doors of the courthouse. Before she could regain her bearings in the cruel light of the sun, a microphone was thrust before her face.

“How does it feel to know that the murderer of your son is one day closer to justice?”

You felt like putting out your arm to shield your mom from the parasites of the local press, but your shyness among the swelling crowds of faces kept you from doing as much. Still, you and your mother filtered through the molasses of the crowd towards the cab that was waiting for you at the curb.

The buzzing of microphones and lights around you suddenly shifted towards some central point behind you, and the sudden swell of booing from civilian busy-bodies clued you and your mother in to who it was that had just exited the courthouse.

Jesús Parerrez stood on the court steps with his legal defense team and looked out at the jeering audience. “Only God can judge me,” he said, though it was inaudible over the sounds of his crucifying mass.

As he and his team took their first few movements down the steps, him with a forceful swagger, and his team with their briefcases before them to ward off the mosquito-like paparazzos, three microphones assaulted the area before his face.

“Mr. Parerrez, do you feel any guilt for what you’ve done.”

“I haven’t done shit,” he said with a smug grin.

“The mother of the deceased claims she saw your face. She picked you out of a line-up.”

“My client hasn’t given the press permission for an interview. I’ll have to ask you to-”

“The pigs,” Jesús interrupted. “They put her up to it.”

His lawyers sighed with exasperation. The way he was going, they were going to have the first client in decades that the state dusted off the chair for.

“Mr. Parrerrez!” called a journalist, and then he stumbled backwards down the step into his cameraman. Before even stabilizing himself, he continued. “What do you say to the claim that you fit the description of the suspect in the Maria Stubbordshire and Gretta Voorhoeven rape cases?”

Jesús’s pace took no reduction as he responded, chin up with a grin. “I haven’t seen those bitches in my life. I don’t know who their rapist was, but any man who has raped somebody willing to lie and say I committed a crime, is a friend by me.”

The crowd erupted into a horrified persecutory moan. And the energy of it was reflected into the reddening faces of his exasperated legal council. Even still, his upright posture and chin, and the rhythm of his motion down those courthouse steps did not change one iota.

He then continued: “He probably raped them ahead of time just to punish them for the lies he knew they’d tell.”

Your mom didn’t even turn around to look at him, his every fibre expressing themselves as that of a champion, elevated up on those stairs. She had been forced to look him in the eyes a second time in that court. The first time she had met those eyes had been on the second floor of her own home in her very own shower, when she had felt a rough male hand grab her on her right butt cheek. She had spun around with a wide-eyed smile, believing in that naïve moment that your father had made a full recovery and had come home from the hospital, however foolish the thought, and what she met there instead were those eyes. His eyes.

His completely nude lower half stepped into the shower, as she backed up, voiceless in her terror, toward the showerhead, the wild heat of it doing nothing to massage the horror she felt in that moment out of her mind.

His cock was already brown and hard as he stepped in. His forearm brushing against her hip as his fist still clenched her cheek. He pulled at her by the immense heft of her cheek to try to get her to turn around. “What are they feeding you gringos,” he said. “It looks as good naked as I imagined it would in your dresses.”

It hadn’t hit your mom then, the fear being too overwhelming for thought, but later, long after the horror of the ordeal was over with, and the grief just beginning, she had connected her vague awareness of a near omnipresent white van, one which she had been continually noticing, its windows blacked-out, for weeks before this moment. That abstract and nagging fear, so quaint in comparison, was swallowed up by the black pit of a moment that was currently occurring.

His cock swung carelessly through your mother’s shower, just barely poking her in her hip, and his face was cast an odd beige by the light shining through the shower curtain.

He spoke with a dry intensity as he approached her, backing her up against the wall. “Your husband is sick and dying in the hospital, and your two boys aren’t home. I searched your home many times while you were out, and there’s no gun in here other than my own. Just let me fuck this gringo ass,” he said, and he squeezed angrily into her cheek, “and I won’t hurt you or your family.”

His cock throbbed with an unnaturally excited energy, as if this moment was giving him a thrill quite unlike most men have ever felt in their lifetimes. “Just give me this white ass and I swear I won’t take any more from you than I deserve.”

She had no idea how true that ultimatum was about to become, nor how much she’d regret being on the wrong side of it.

Before he could get any closer to her, the sound of the front door opening, though silent, was culminated by the sound of it closing shut.

That was when your mom made the worst mistake of her entire life: she screamed.

You stood at the front door, frozen in shock, as your brother, without thought, bolted ahead of you and up the stairs, missing every second step with his leaping strides.

“Mom!” he yelled.

Your mom screamed out your brother’s name. “He’s in here,” she wailed horribly.

Your brother ran up to the shower door where he could hear the sound of four bare feet sliding along the porcelain bottom of the tub. “Mom!” he yelled and he tried for the locked doorknob.

Inside, there was no answer, only the frantic and wet scufflings of a male and female body.

“Mom!” he yelled again. He backed up and began kicking at the door. Each thrust somehow gaining in power, as if he knew that every second now counted. During one of his kicks, the sound of a gun hammer being cocked back was obscured by the thunder of straining wood.

After that, one more kick snapped the locking mechanism open, and with it, opened the bathroom, and the horror within, to your brother’s sight. But what he saw there on the middle of the bathroom floor caused him to freeze.

Your mom’s giant and bent over ass was roughly at the level of your brother’s face, the lower half of her body being held up by the invader’s left hand under her pubic area, and her top half supported by his broad shoulder, so that your mom was completely vertical in the air, her shocked face pointed toward the open shower curtain.

Before your brother could process the surrealism of the image, your mom’s ass was thrusted directly into his face, enveloping it with her round softness. Your mom screamed as she felt her son’s face fill her ass and her body was carried at rapid speed out of the steamy heat of the bathroom towards the cool outer air. Your brother stumbled back, blinded by your mom’s existence-swallowing cheeks, until the back of his head met the frame of your mom’s bedroom behind him, and the man, carrying your mom, had his hand within the pocket of his own oil-stained and empty jeans, the legs of the jeans themselves trailing along the wild thrust, as his hand held tightly onto something hidden within.

He struggled to wiggle the object out of the pocket, and when he did, the pants dropping to the floor empty in the process, your mom noticed the silver flash, and as it cut through the inexpressibleness of the moment in a way that was more direct than anything else, she screamed again, this time not for herself.

Your brother slipped on the bottom of the intruder’s loose jean leg and he slid down the door frame until his ass was on the ground. Your mom’s ass fell with him as if it were glued to the cheeks of his face, and even as her lower half fell, she stretched out her palm in obeisance to the stranger and pleaded in a desperate thrust. “No!”

You stood at the front doorway, in the very same spot, unable to move, listening to the violent scuffle upstairs, hearing what sounded like the grunts of a foreign person, only keeping you stuck in your spot more steadfastly. Over the sound of the shower, you heard your mom scream “No!” and then, the only thing that could budge you did so.

It was a gunshot.

You fell to the floor and shut your eyes.

You heard your mom wailing in a whine evoking both unfathomable horror and unthinkable loss. “Ohhh God! No! No!”

Accompanying it was the heavy sound of a man coming down the stairs. He ran toward you, and you clenched your eyes tighter, as if to do so would make him disappear. He stopped right next to you, and you listened with blind terror as you heard a belt buckle being handled just next to your head.

“Fuck!” he screamed, causing you to jolt in place again. He seemed to be yelling in the direction of the stairway. “I told you!”

You then heard the front door open behind your head and you heard the sound of bare feet slapping down the pavement and grass, getting more quiet as they went.

Your mom’s wailing spilled down the stairs. It was too sudden for you to even imagine its source. As if whatever was causing it could only be a misunderstanding. As if something so horrible couldn’t come so suddenly. As if it were a law of nature that all things must work otherwise.

When you made your way up the stairs, you first saw the top of your mom’s head. As you continued, you saw her face, tears streaming down her bloated features. And when you got a little further, you froze.

Behind your mom’s head you saw an extra piece of flesh. Two extra pieces of flesh, both shaped like round orbs, poking freely up into the air, a heavenly shade of beige-pink.

It couldn’t be, you thought.

It was.

When you stepped up further, you saw your brother lying on the floor motionless, his hands on his chest.

Your mom looked up at you, nude as a statue of Venus. “He’s dead!” she exclaimed, and then her face fell to his stomach and she began to sob.

You slowly moved towards her, and then around her silently until you were standing behind her, looking down at her bent over wet ass, which jiggled with each sob.

You stood there, unmoving, waiting to see if your mom would remain in her state of undress all the way up until the moment the cops came (you assumed correctly that a neighbor would call-in the sound of a gunshot). She ended up running into the bathroom to throw on her towel before they came up the stairs. Her world may have been shattered, but her sense of dignity remained intact. You watched the beauty of her jiggling cheeks as she did, and the comparative disappointment of her clothed form as she came back out just in time to yell down at the incoming police who called through the house.

As she described what happened to one of the officers, the other saw something on the ground. He kneeled down and grabbed it. It was a wallet. They had determined later that it fell out of the pocket of the suspect when he was reaching for his gun. Right next to it, they found one solitary shell-casing, which had fell in a way that caused it to bounce and then land upright.

As this happened, your mom blubbered out the story of the man entering the shower and grabbing her. How your brother had come to the door and began kicking it. And how she was hoisted in the air and thrust toward your brother. You stood in shock. It wasn’t until today in court, with your mom on the stand, that you had heard about the contact her ass had made with your brother’s face, when the defense had accidentally dragged it out of her through cross-examination when trying to poke holes in her story. Until then, nobody had known that had happened except your mom, who was too embarrassed to tell it, the suspect, who wished his defense would let him tell it, and your brother, who could no longer tell anyone anything.

The swallowing darkness between your mom’s giant cheeks was the last thing your brother had seen before he had been shot in the chest and left this mortal existence.

Jesús’s wallet had his credit cards and I.D. within it. At his home, they found a gun which had matched the marking left on the bullet at the crime scene. The walls of his bedroom were plastered, many layers over, with images of white women with large asses cut out of magazines. He also had stacks of notebooks filled with endless prose and poetry about ass. It was that monomania of purpose that had brought him into your mom’s life. On a crooked bulletin board, they found thumbtacked to it all sorts of data in the form of dates, times, travel paths, and factoids of all kinds about her, including those which he had brought up to her in the shower.

In a suitcase nearby, they found similar data that had been brushed away, estimated to be that which applied to 37 other women, all of which were assumed to have prodigious backsides.

The case had become a public spectacle not long after. Much to the dismay of his legal council, Jesús plead not-guilty, though his reason as to why would often change, his council being forced to scrounge to make up for his wild breaks in story.

“You are telling me, Mr. Parrerez” the prosecutor said, and pointed at your mom, who had been looking down at her knees the entire time while he was on the stand. “That you have never seen this woman before?”

“Not from the front,” he said, and smiled.

The courthouse erupted into violent murmurings. The head of his defense clutched both palms to his face.

“I only looked in the shower to give her a spank and tell her that her son had been shot by some madman.”

The court erupted again.

Before the judge could threaten to put him in contempt of court, Jesús said “and in case you’re wondering. It looks great.”

The court hissed in a wild disgust, half-real, half-feigned. The press were diving head first into it like pigs in slop, this story checking off their two most powerful boxes, that of outrage, and that of titillation. The images of your mom above or beside the story were often pictures of her full body as she shuffled out of the courthouse each day. When the revelation of your brother’s face being swallowed by that very same ass that tantalized the nation broke, the articles again galivanted along their pages in the drag of indignation and outrage, even as they dealt in subtle vocabulary around the margins that hinted at size and shape.

Your brother was “blinded by an oppressive weight in death,” which was followed immediately after with: “that weight of course being the absurd horror of the moment.

His final breaths were “stifled” and his pleading eyes “obscured.” He couldn’t “see the shot coming through an obstruction to his vision.” Your mother “guarded his eyes bravely from what was coming next.” Even when she “feared for her own life, she refused to let him face his fate alone by standing up from where she sat to escape.” She “clutched to her son’s body, holding it as close to her as she could in her final moments.” The horror of her naked body flying through the air at him was unfortunately his “last sight he had to witness before leaving this world.” His last kiss to his mother goodbye “was made in the only place he could,” due to “his need to show her that it wasn’t her fault before he was gone.

The porn parody of the event starring Lisa Ann sparked intense controversy, though that didn’t stop it from being viewed 114 million times, with numerous mirrors popping up on hundreds of sites hours after the original was removed (including mirrors you reuploaded yourself).

Your mom stood, her body freshly squeezed of another round of photographs, moving with you towards the door of the cab. The cameras were now facing behind you, as the man of the hour stopped at the eighth to last step and said “despite my persecution, which is evocative of the persecution of our lord and savior, I still harbor no ill-will towards my accuser.” He stood there for a second, and then he laughed to himself and looked up. “And just to prove that, I will be willing to fuck her, right here and right now to show that I am neither angry nor bitter at the way I’m being treated in this pig circus of a trial.”

The civilian crowd erupted in rage, but the faces of the reporters all lit up with barely concealed dollar signs in their eyes. Your mom looked down at the ground.

He put up his hand to demand silence, which came more out of a fascination to hear what he’d say next than out of a respect for his right to speak. “And just to recreate the famous moment for the ladies and gentleman out there in TV land, we can have her sit on her surviving son’s face.”

As the crowd again erupted in half-real fury, you felt that feeling, the one from that day, when you saw your mom’s body hunched over in its wet nudity and you pondered pulling out your phone to film it before you even pondered shedding a tear over your brother’s cruel demise. This had been the first time he had acknowledged your existence, and in doing so, that same fear you felt kneeling toward the mat by the front door came back to you.

“I’ll put down the price of my incoming lawsuit that both her cheeks will touch the pavement even with his full head in between them.”

Your mom felt the soul of her body being taken from her, raked over the coals of the crowd, and casted out to their hungry mouths like lots. She kept her head down as she got into the back of the cab. You got in next to her.

Before the two of you left, Jesús Parrerez had said another thing, both offensive and titillating to the public imagination, and the crowd erupted again with more fury, like clockwork, their motivation for it being as if it were programmed with dials and springs, as if it were only an impulse done without thought or real feeling. And though your mom could feel that in them, and she felt herself drawing back deeper into her shell with the ghost of your brother and the worsening whispers of her dying husband, she knew she at least had you next to her to genuinely care. It was her only consolation.

As the cabbie looked back at the two of you, his eyes in a sultry mist, your mom rested her head on your shoulder and began to sob. As she did, her body convulsed with each sucking back of air. As you felt that trembling weight, your thoughts filled with what she looked like on that day, and the curves of her beautiful naked flesh which you regretted not getting on camera. Regretted not capturing that powerful moment in the history of American scandal and suburban erotica.

And some part of you, though no part that you had articulated to yourself, regretted that you and your brother had come home an hour early that day. Because if you hadn’t, not only would your brother still be alive, but your mom would have gotten what would have been guaranteed for her in that shower that day. The cock and pelvis of America’s new favorite villain: Jesús Parrerez, and the knowledge of what it felt and sounded like to have her wet cheeks pounded by his furious thrusts, with nobody around to save her.

It would have been wonderful.


There were three sets of cars outside your house at varying distances, some blocks away, some just outside. The first set of these cars belonged to the police. After all, recent changes in the bail laws allowed for even a trial-suspect of this caliber to post bail and to be free up until the moment of a guilty verdict, a fact which disgusted police and evening pundits like an ancient blasphemy. The second set of cars belonged to members of the press, who took pictures of the victim from behind their tinted windows, all of them secretly hoping for another sudden bombshell, no matter how tragic and obscene. The third set belonged to civilians who had become obsessed with the case, obsessed with the perpetrator, or obsessed with your mom and her voluptuous body. Many of the civilians fit all three categories.

Out of all the faces in all the cars, only one of them was smiling a particular smile as he watched you and your mom enter your now-famous dwelling. As he watched your mom’s ass move, he played with something in his hands. Once she disappeared inside, her looked at it and then held it to his adoring face. It was a pair of panties. Her panties. He kissed the crotch of it. He looked over at the face of his laptop on his passenger seat and saw on the screen as you and your mother walked through the house, past your now famous set of stairs, and into the kitchen.

He switched to an alternate shot and watched from above as your mom sat down and put her hand to her head. Then he watched as you opened up the fridge and began to pour yourself kool-aid. Then you looked at her, and he smiled. And your lips said something, he could just barely make out their movement. And then the kool-aid glass in your hand was transferred over to the table in front of her.

He let his hand fall to his crotch and felt his rock-hard naked cock in his hand, which tingled at the chalky sensation that blued his cock and balls now as much as it had the palm and fingers of his hand. And as much as it would the insides of your mom’s stomach.

The guy at the tech shop was right. The cameras were of the highest quality. He could even make out the tears reforming in your mom’s tired eyes as she took a sip.


When Jesús had somehow found a way to leave his hotel without the detectives outside noticing, the press was the first one to figure out. The cops took decades of minutes later. The public (not counting those camped out in their cars near your house) never found out until long after it had happened, long after the events of that day.

How he could get out, no one could say. Especially not his lawyers.

Your mom felt exhausted. She felt her consciousness slipping as she lay face-down on the couch. Too exhausted to get up and climb the stairs. Also, not eager to pass the former scene of the crime on her way to her bedroom.

You stood at the top of the steps, watching her, playing with the bulge in your pants as you looked at her ass draped in funerary black.

Your mom took one last breath, closed her eyes, and then she slept in a blackness so deep and profound, it was as if her face were engulfed by her own ass.

A grinning mouth watched you from above as you pulled your pants down and began jerking off to your mom at the top of the stairs. And he switched the camera to the living room and examined your mother. After a few more moments of her soft breaths he said “okay,” and he hit a key on his laptop.

A red light flashed within the darkness in the corner of your basement. A shrouded face looked down at the light. The figure manipulated the device with a single push, and the light was extinguished. Leaving only the light which spilled-in in an oblong rectangle through the glass of the basement window.

Suddenly, within that light, something long and snake-like lifted into view. It lifted its head, and started to become hard, until it was pointing diagonally up the wooden steps toward the door of the main floor. The object throbbed. And then it disappeared, followed by naked brown flesh.

You felt a sudden shudder, one that almost forced an involuntary orgasm from you, as you heard the sound of feet slapping against the wood steps in the basement. You retreated backward slightly. And as you looked down on the main floor, with your hands on the banister railings, your cock throbbed.

The face in the sedan could see you on his screen, looking down at the main floor, your mother sleeping below, your eyes wide and wild, and your cock throbbing. He laughed a deep laugh to himself, and his limbs fidgeted with excess energy.

As you stood there, waiting for the noise to subside and retreat back into the shadows of your fevered imagination, that hope was dashed and cut in two by the sound of a deep voice coming from the basement. “He did it for nothing, miss!”

The basement door opened, and you shut your eyes in terror.

“He ate his own mother’s ass and got shot just to delay the inevitable for 8 months. You should have known you were never getting away. When Jesús the Great wants an ass, he takes an ass. No if, ands, or… butts… about it.”

He was pacing up and down the hardwood floor megalomaniacally. You can trace where he was at any given moment by the sound of his feet on the floor and the frequency of his voice. But you couldn’t see. Your eyes were clenched together too tightly.

“So let me go through the scenario again, now with different odds. Your husband is still on his deathbed, refusing to die, but that’s okay, he’s out of the way, that’s my point. Your brave son is dead. And your only remaining son is either as sleepy as you are, or he’s already heard me, and is hiding wherever he was when he first heard my voice, kneeled down with his eyes clenched shut.”

You felt a cold rattling through your core, putting wear and tear on your chin and clenched jaw, at hearing the man of your nightmares read you so well.

“And if he isn’t hiding – which he definitely is, let’s be clear – then he’s standing somewhere, furiously jerking off, excited that he can finally see the moment he missed, and not resort to watching porn parodies of it.”

You sucked in air jaggedly as if you half-expected the tail-end of a whip to meet your naked back. Such was the shock of those words. You had been read like a children’s book, as if he had been watching you like a fly on your wall.

“Unfortunately, your gringo press has been so preoccupied with the shape and smell of your white ass that not-a-single pencil-neck among them has found out my connections in El Salvadore. I’m what you call a made man. El Diablo. A boogie man of sorts. Doing this isn’t why I’m here. I’m here to move product. Tasting the flesh of the locals is just a pastime.”

You heard a pronounced slapping noise. Your cock, still hard and exposed during the terror, throbbed. This was the sequel to the strangest day of your life, and in 8 months, your mom’s ass had been smacked by the same palm twice, as if it had been decided by providence and only delayed by your brother acting on behalf of the impotent will of man.

“That’s the fruit of being a professional at your job, miss. Your benefactors give you a long leash. Plus,” he said as he grabbed a palmful of your mom’s cheek. “Everyone loves a little debauch. Especially when it’s not in their own backyard. What the public in your country is eating up now, the boys back home laughed about at their poker tables. Jesús the Gringo Eater they call me. Nothing angers the world like a white woman with a fat ass. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know any science outside of the chemistry involved in cocaine production. But mark me here.” He kneeled down to whisper into her sleeping ear. “That ravenous mass of white faces out there, they hem and haw and jeer at me, but don’t misunderstand. It’s not me they’re mad at, though I’m sure they believe they are. It’s you. And it’s this.” He tugged your mom’s butt-cheek back and forth in his full-palmed grip. “Trust me. It wasn’t the boys back home that got me out of my hotel without those pigs seeing. It was a member of your ever-loving fan club.

“Everybody’s rooting for my second chance. It is America, you Americans love your redemption arcs. All-American white woman, mother of many sons and wife to a sick husband. You represent everything they are, everything they see in themselves at their best. And in doing so, you represent everything about themselves that they can’t stand. The boredom, the picket-fences of their minds and their possibilities. The day-in, day-out grind of work, TV, bed, work, TV, bed, gossip, TV, bed, it makes them all want to puke. And then I come in, Big Mr. Spick, the figure they’ve seen in their nightmares. That which they believe they hate, but betray their true needs in their single-minded obsession with me.

“And then they see what I almost did to you, what they know I must have done to others like you, blonde, brunette, smiling, happy, mothers of children and wives of hard-working men; they see me swoop in like a smudge in their perfect portraits, a fly in their white ocean of oatmeal, and their fists tighten, and their teeth clench. But all the while, even as they slam their fist to their morning tables thinking about me, thinking about what I represent, they only do so with such passion to hide something about themselves from themselves. It’s their cocks. They’re hard. And their pussies wet in some cases. As they think about this brown cock invading that giant white ass that juts out at everyone, and even in its beauty, it sticks out like a sore, a tumor that evokes everything this American perfection deprives them of. You drive them mad, simply by your shape, its sultry excess, its proportion all out of reasonable weight. And then they can feel the absence of what it is their animal selves want so badly, what so many back home want to escape. The sound of the glass breaking, and the machine guns in the distance. The screams and the screeching tires and the ominous looks by men across the bar with their hands in their coats. The slang and the addictions, and the big… brown… cock… being shoved and forced into any orifice it feels like. America is the land of orifices. Just… absolutely thousands of asses, pussies, and mouths just waiting to be fucked. Yours… just ready for that fuck. In place of their wife, mother, sister, or cousin, you were supposed to get it. To give them all the thrill that my people evoke in yours, but none of the horror of it being their house… their wife. It was yours. It was supposed to be yours. If only your maricon son hadn’t gotten in the way.”

Your teeth were chattering so loudly within your head that you feared it could be heard downstairs. Even still, your cock wouldn’t soften to match your mood. If anything, your horror fuelled your arousal.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m done talking. Let’s get reacquainted.”

He loosened his grasp on her cheek and instead pinched it on the seat of her dress. With the fabric between his forefinger and thumb, he suddenly dragged upwards, taking your mom’s dress up the small of her back.

“I must admit,” he said. “This is my first time seeing the ass of real American celebrity. Last time you were just a civilian. Now you’re famous. You’re welcome.”

He grabbed onto what was left of her dress, and tugged it off her, tearing the dress to shreds in the process.

“Wow,” he said. “How did I even lift you last time with an ass so fat?”

The duel snakes of terror and horrid excitement wrapped their scaly bodies around one another in your chest, stomach, throat, and balls. Your mom, the woman who had pushed you on the swings in the backyard of this very house was down there, naked, her glorious cheeks bare, to the sight and touch of a honest-to-god sociopath, and you knew that there was nothing you could do to stop it. He had proven that he was willing to kill once already. And that was the only excuse you needed to sit back and not stop it.

As you heard wild sounds, sounds you had only known through your tinny gaming headphones on your laptop as you watched porn, you slowly, but surely, found the loose and wild scraps of heroism necessary to pry open your sweating eyelids.

It was only a sliver, the light of the outer world that scared you so bursting through it, but the feint sight of brown-beige movement, with flashes of black line cutting through it, was just the tonic you needed to force your eyes open slightly more. And with each gain in sight, more of that enticing fragment, and all it implied, fueled the next step.

When the little you allowed yourself finally gave you the image of a brown cylinder of meat going up inside of two large mountains of flesh, it was like a flame had flashed on within you, and with that, your eyes shot wide open.

You sucked in air so rapidly you feared he would hear it, but the pronounced slapping noises made by your mom’s heavy cheeks against his sturdy thighs masked the noise many times over. The house filled, echoing throughout in its emptiness that larger than life sound.

Your mom, the Rosie the Riveter for the poster of white safety, was in full view of you, down there in the very living room you grew up in, being used by El Salvador’s most viscous drug runner and rapist, a service which fit her form and being strangely well.

The particular flavor of her white ass (they were all like snowflakes) melted on the tongue of the man who killed your brother, and your cock throbbed a titanium hard to the knowledge of it. Unlike your brother, you knew not to stop a great thing. Unlike the cops. Unlike the stinging one-liners of overpaid journalists. Unlike the naysayers and the unwashed masses that buzzed about their TV’s with scowls and judging eyes, you knew that what was happening to your mom wasn’t an outcome that could be fully encapsulated, breaded, and fried by the mulch of meaningless buzzwords or overused platitudes. What was happening to your mom’s body was beyond categorization. And you knew from bitter experience, as your brother had to learn in a flash, that the wage of trying to work the world into cramped cardboard boxes was naturally, and foreseeably, death. In his case, quite literally.

Your brother had died for nothing. Your mom had gotten him killed for nothing with a scream. The world had celebrated his bravery for nothing. In the end, it all happened as it should. Your mom’s gringo ass was being pulverized by the dream lover America had cooked up for her. They were a modern Romeo and Juliet, though their tragedy was one of rage and groaning rather than of sadness and lamentation. That didn’t make their coupling in this moment any less star-crossed. Bodies meant for one another attracted through any means, and the hands which shaped all as it was had built your mom’s body, forming it lovingly from clay and perfume, for the wild mind and insatiable body of one Jesús Parrerez. Your father’s illness, your brother’s death, your cowardice, and even the jackal-like faces of the press and public were all just pieces, threads in this finally stringing together of a gorgeous perfection which stood, hanging on the tree of time for all to see.

The man in the car had already nutted at the sight of your mom’s ass bouncing on his screen. You kneeling at the top of the stairs, latticed by the shadows cast by the banister, in a smaller video window didn’t help.

He sat in the afterglow of that much deserved, as he saw it, ejaculation and sweet vibration through his lower half. He had taken the initiative to try to get into contact, no matter how straining a task, with Jesús Parrerez, succeeded, and cooked up this opportunity for redemption, getting nothing out of it other than the right to shape his favorite news story in a way that successfully shaped the lives and outcome for all involved. What more could anyone ask for?

He had been following the thread of every prominent rape case in the city for years, some of which he now knew, to his enthrallment, had been the previous handiwork of Mr. Parrerez, and though stalking the victims, and scaring them into believing their rapist would come back with ominous letters and hints – sometimes even going so far as breaking into their homes and scrawling messages on their mirrors and walls with lipstick or soap – this case had afforded him the apex of all possible thrills: the chance, or rather the opportunity, to help a woman’s rape be birthed into wondrous being.

And he sat there now in the blanket of his own hot cum, grinning at the motion of your mom’s cheeks as they bounced up and down upon the man he had planned this all with. He had done it. Though nobody would ever know it, he had become the story. And the product of his measured nudges as catalyst now was the hard cylinder pushing its way deep into your mom’s insides, touching her most private places.

And just after he sat there, laughing as Mr. Parrerez’s balls constricted and began to dimple as they pumped volley after volley of thick and desiring cum into the most private nook of your mom’s unguarded body, he saw a car speeding down the street at full speed, when reaching the edge of your lawn, it snapped sideways and drifted like a cloud over the grass of your lawn. Then in his rearview he saw another vehicle, this time a news van, do something similar, though stopping short, almost too late, at noticing the other car which had already found its spot.

A single man, with a camera hanging from his neck emerged from the door of the car already in business mode, and a team emerged from the sliding door of the van, much the same way.

As they prepared, more cars and van came down the street from both ends, clogging and congesting it like a nightmare. The man with the camera snapped photo after photo of the front of the house, while the news team ran their film camera, the newswoman preparing herself. “Does my hair look alright. Good. How ‘bout my make-up?”

The man looked back at his laptop screen to see a recently satiated Mr. Parrerez standing up, half-hiding behind a house-plant, taking peeks at the window and the commotion which began to build outside. Your mom lay on the couch, face-down with her ass up in the air, and you still stood at the top of the stairs, your ball-sack yet to empty and your cock still in your hand being played with virtuosity to a sensuous music only you could hear.

Jesús looked concerned, but not scared. He had the internal and self-perpetuating assurance of a psychopath that he would find a way, no matter how remote, to get out of this situation, and rather than buckle under the weight of the knowledge that the front lawn of the house he was currently nude within was crowded with the mosquito-like buzzing of journalists, he instead saw the four-leaf clover shaped opening that was afforded him by the curious lack of police-presence, and the knowledge that the backyard of the house, free of camera, microphone, and anchor, lead into an open field.

And besides, it never took long for Jesús to find a tool in his moments of desperation. And this house, like all suburban houses, was full of them.

As the number of kempt newsman and woman bubbled upward on the lawn, street, and sidewalk, Jesús looked back to the couch where your mom lay silently, and then he went from the side of her face, following it with his eyes, all the way down her back, until he got to the prodigious ass he had just enjoyed to its fullest a moment ago. It sat there, silent and without protest.

Jesús smiled.

When the front window exploded, shattered by a flying ottoman that sailed through the air and onto a recently formed opening on the front lawn, the man in the car wasn’t surprised. He had seen Mr. Parrerez on his camera lift the ottoman and throw it at the window with a running start.

But what happened next truly did catch the man unaware.

Because as he watched the commotion outside his car window inherit within the sight of journalists scattering from the crash and tumbling ottoman like the rats they all knew they were, something from within the shade of the house, an image that was bizarre, even in its obscurity, caught him with nothing more than the obscure wonder it had teased. He looked back down at his laptop, and the image of the living room was unchanged but for three things. The ottoman at the end of the couch was missing, leaving a rectangular pale spot on the hardwood, the glass of the front window had been completely shattered from the edge of one side of its frame to the other and a slight but harmless breeze blew the draperies into a state of lazy motion, and your mom and her famous ass were no longer on the couch. There was an hourglass shaped indentation in her place.

When he saw where she was instead, his mouth dropped open.

“And it appears he’s attempting to escape through this front window,” said the recently-flustered strawberry blonde anchor as she stepped around the ottoman, still broadcasting to the audience at home watching the situation live. “Carl, let’s get closer.”

The cameraman himself, speaking through his camera-work alone, appeared to be flustered, as the anchor rushed out in front of him, and noticing that he had failed to match his pace, motioned him toward her, saying “come on!” in non-threatening frustration, beckoning not only him, but the audience that watched through his eye, to get closer toward the window which had just been blown open by the weight of flying furniture.

The light of the sun disappeared as the cameraman and anchor got close enough to be swallowed by the shadow under the eave of the house.

“And it appears,” said the anchor, and she turned around. “That… that… what the hell is that?”

Emerging from the shadow within the house, like some strange sight, confusing viewers at home at first with its incomprehensibility, a conflagration of limbs and trunk like some Greek myth, slowly evolving as the focus of the camera settled on its sight, and that’s when they all realized, journalist and public alike. The cops were the last to witness it, being the last to find out about Mr. Parrerez giving them to slip, and their sirens could be heard now in the distance as they came from all angles trying to catch up on lost time.

There was a collective gasp, fueled by indignation, shock, and strange and erotic catharsis, as the knowledge of all who witnessed finally and collectively settled on what it was they were all looking at this entire time.

It was their villain, standing there, statuesque and menacing, now naked as the day he was born. That alone would have been enough to let the collective jaws of the country drop. But what really pushed that ambivalent cart of thrills over the line of acceptable expectation, leaving the viewers, and the news media that provided for them, in a state of unbelieved and undeserved rapture, was the identity of that strange something that sat there on his shoulder. Something long and heavy. Something that was capped off by something big, round, and soft, with a big unbroken line from its near top all the way down to its very bottom.

A slovenly father of three sitting at home on his popcorn strewn couch crushed his can of Pabst Blue Ribbon in the vice-grip of his palm.

Your mom’s naked and unbroken ass had made its primetime debut.

And before the pretty anchor standing on the grass could even struggle out a single word, Jesús finished his sucking breath and heaved your mom forward through the void where a pane of glass used to be.

The entire nation watched as its darling bottom, that which they beat their desks, growled and cried for; that which in the privacy of their beshadowed minds, they entertained in any sick shape they could, feeling secure in the cloister of their own minds and the expectation that everyone else was doing the same; it was that very ass which flew directly at them, its cheeks separating at the very lens of the camera, exposing her inner butthole for a fraction of a second to all who watched from home, then engulfing the shocked mouths, gritting teeth, and glowing eyes of the nation which had obsessed over it with feverish intensity for the last eight months, in the world-devouring darkness within. To the solipsism of the post-TV world, it was as if the world around them, which they trusted their televisions to relay to them unabridged, had just been blotted out in one swift moment of apocalyptic bliss.

For those outside the house, the world kept turning.

All the other cameras, those which shot videos and those which shot stills, swarmed around your mom’s naked body, her cheeks pushed aside by the pressure of the lens within them, and her chest resting against the knees of the fallen and dazed cameraman. A half-dozen other pretty anchors crowded around, competing with the one with the luckiest camera’s adlibbed diatribe. All of them sounding messy and strapped together haphazardly, each trying to milk every last bit of stardust from the moment.

By the end of it all, your mom’s body was the most heavily and thoroughly documented of any in the history of American journalism, and her twice-attempted and only once-foiled attacker was long gone, escaped through the backyard into a freedom unviolated, into a world of limitless color, sensation, and space.

The man in the car sat there, his face in utter shock, watching you at the edge of the banister, as your face ascended any common human emotion, and volley after volley of thick cum exited your cock, landing on the vertical slats of hardwood on the first floor below. You thrusted your hips as the cum unburdened you through that exit at the hole of penis’s tip, and your twitching eyelid and drooping lower lip spoke a language called bliss. How could it not? The buzzing sounds of buzzard press, a cacophony you had been made familiar with after the past three-quarters of a year, knowing its sonic nuances like the back of your own hand, came through your first-floor window, now multiplied in intensity and ecstatic violence up the stairs toward your welcoming ear. By the time your balls had emptied it had finally set in. You were the biggest cuck in American media history, and you sat in the afterglow of that ejaculation, welcoming your small sentence or two within that page of those dusty annals. The man could see it in your face. You had ascended the here and now. You were now one with eternity.

It was amazing to think that what started as such a small moment, cramped away within the cul-de-sac of a suburban shower could unravel like a dialectic of the absurd toward such an explosive and all-encompassing finale. The iconic image, other than the slowed-down video of her ass approaching the lens of that one fateful camera, getting bigger and closer, almost unbelievably so, until it opened up and swallowed the camera itself; was one of the photographs taken by a scrambling photographer, the first on the scene, who captured the moment from the outside when the lens pressed itself within her cheeks, but just before the camera operator fell backward with your mom falling on top of him. In the image, one as iconic as the best photographers of the world have ever taken, your mom floated above the ground in a surreal levitation, her hair flying out and before her, her entire body appearing to be supported by the extended lens of only a single camera. Her eyes shut. Her mouth open.

The image, uncensored and raw, like all great journalism, would survive much longer than your brother had. It would survive all of you. Every single person on planet earth would live and die multiple times before that photo would ever be ash. Attempts to censor it were looked on with erudite indignance, the philistinism of it created repulsion in all who suffered such suggestions. After all, the artistic, journalistic, and historic weight of the image spoke for itself. It spoke of a time when the invasiveness of the press had reached its zenith, its very lens penetrated the most private place on the female form in its most private and promethean humiliation. The sight of the jackal-like faces of the press in the background, eyes aglow with the quest for fame and recognition, as cavemen quested for fire, encircling their prey like jeering onlookers at the crucifixion. The inanimate, defenseless and vulnerable face of the mother of one dead son and a sick husband, as the world around her closed in with such feverish intensity that the very tools they used to document her wild and expanding pain, forced crowdward, now penetrated into her very body, leading only to performative outrage and genuine jubilation, each justifying the other, creating a world that could celebrate and sleep at night. Your mom’s name lived on as the archetypal victim of that era by which all suffering since then could be measured.

The name of Jesús Parrerez had all but been forgotten. But Stanley Gehring, the man who took the photo, the hero and villain both, documenter of man’s savagery and participant in it, and Gordon Brown, the camera operator whose lens all but spit-roasted the poor woman, introducing the world to the unending blackness within her ass, would live on forever.

Dr. Callens expressed this to his students with the photo blown-up behind him. 121 young faces in a university auditorium looked on, engulfed by its silvery light, expressions ambivalent and strange. That century had appeared so foreign to them. They could barely conjure up an understanding of how members of their very own species, those who shared all of their genetics but not a single year of overlap in time, could be so alien in their motivation and shamelessness. A visciousness animal-like and cruel, like bare-teeth snarling with translucent saliva.

After the class cleared out somberly, the good doctor took a long sigh. It wasn’t always fun teaching the history of western media. He continued back to his office, leaned on its rickety door as he checked his coat pocket to make sure he remembered his glasses, and he said in a sombre voice: “Woman, behold thy son,” and the speaker on the door echoed back “voice recognized,” and the door slid open. He continued “Then saith he to the disciple, behold thy mother.”

He set his books down on his desk and took a seat on his rickety chair. He looked out his window at the metallic sheen of the city and figures that walked and rode through it. He then wheeled his chair back around to his desk.

“Finally,” he said. “I moment alone. Doormaid?”

“Yes, Dr. Callens,” a robotic voice spoke from the speaker.

“If student or staff come, I’m not here.”

“Affirmative Dr. Callens. Door: locked. Room status: Empty.”

The pale green light over the door turned red.

He moved one of his books aside, exposing the book beneath it, and he opened it up to its 472nd page, moving with intent and eagerness as if he were going to visit an old friend. Laying in wait for him there instead was his favorite photograph.

Your mom’s body floated there surrounded by the crowd. “Hello again dear,” the professor said, and with one hand, began to undo the buckle of his belt. “The day is now finished, that my lessons might be fulfilled. So now I thirst.”

As his pants came down and he felt his throbbing cock in his palm, he smiled.

“You are with me always. Even unto the end of the world. Now let’s have some fun.”

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