I love Italian food.
I mean, absolute, toally-smitten, unremittent love.
I mean, the kind of love where you'd rather be having sex with a bowtie pasta noodle than your own wife.
The kind of love where, instead of playing with your own infant, you'd rather go to a country where you can sell the little rat into slavery, and buy an XL loaf of garlic bread.
But this ain't a game. We're here for a reason. That's right. When you fuck with peristalsis, you get results.
So here we are. Luigi Marconi's Famous Italian—there's three of us, altogether. John and Sam. Gay lovers, I suspect, but I don't fucking care. You can have your gay marriage, Sam. You too, John. Just don't expect a free fuck outta me.
Nope, with me you gotta pay.
I don't charge much. Believe me, it's well worth the price of admission; a strong cold laxative and maybe a Rohyphenol or two. You'll get what you need. And it all starts here. With me. And you.
I order the house special. Sam; the tortellini. John says he isn't hungry. Oh yes you are, you silly faggot. You know you're hungry. I know you're hungry. We're all, the three of us, hungry for something that ain't on the menu. Something long. Hard. There you go: a juicy Italian flank steak! "You won't be sorry!" It's the waiter. And I know he's right. I won't regret my order. And neither will Sam. And neither will John. Grins abound.
John heads off to the bathroom. Sam follows immediately. It's just me now. Fuck, I'm lonely. There's no one else in the room. No one in the fucking restaurant. Everyone in the world is gone except me. But they can all come back for the price of an admission ticket. Food comes. Smells like shit. This is what we get for buying from the low bidder. Fuck, I love Italian food.
John and Sam still gone in the bathroom. What the fuck is taking them so long? Their food is getting cold, but I'm getting hot. And I'm getting hotter. Fuck. One hand strokes the greasy matted hair into sexy clumps. The other gropes at an oddly shaped bottle protruding partially from a jacket pocket.
Bisacodyl Suppository. Fuck. The name itself is enough to arouse me. Mortar and pestle are securely in hand. I grind up the pills. Yellow dust spills across the table with every crunch and every pound of the pestle. Ear to ear, grinning and laughing. No one knows. Will ever know. Could ever know the way. The way I feel right now.
Here's a bit for you, John. This should liven up your fucking steak! And you, too, Sam! You've never had a better fucking spiced tortellini!
And they're back. They look winded. Giddy."How was your bathroom break, fellas?" It was good. It was great. It was amazingly satisfying. They gush their praises for the facility like cheap innuendo. And they still don't know.
But how could they? They were gone, and now they're here. Eating that steak; that steaming tortellini. The mystery meat long-since digested into their open, gaping intestines. But they'll know it soon.
And now we're all feeling it. And we all like it. No, we fucking Love it. The mosels making their ways slowly through our stomachs. Enzymes nipping cautiously along the way.
Bubbling.
Bubbling.
Down. All the way down.
We're sitting here. Falling here. Off our chairs. And we're feeling it, the three of us. None of us understands it. This cancerous lump of pulsating glory, slowly coursing through the lower reaches of our prostrate bodies. But we all know it. We've felt it before, but never this strong.
Fuck, it burns. Burns with the pleasure of our three quivering bodies. Burns with the pain of a million hot irons. A million razor blades. Incisions.
All the way down.
Fuck, it's too much. We've gotta go. Leave. Veloce, per favore.
The pressure. I'm giving birth to a million babies through the wrong hole, and I'm ripping at the seams.
And you know what? I love it, too. Grimace your way through it. That's how you gotta do it. I know it is. I know I can. Fuck it. This ain't gonna last.
Sam's on the left. Breathing rythmically. Orgasmically. He's lovin' this shit, more than anything McDonalds has ever dished up. More than Subway. More than even fucking KFC. Fried chicken; suck it. French fries; Go make some other no-lifer gain 300 pounds. Subs; Go off to school to learn gynecology. I'll stick with Italian, if you don't mind. Enhanced Italian, that is. No other restaurant ever incurred such intense pleasure. No other restaurant ever incurred such intense rectal bleeding. No other restaurant ever satisfied its customers as much as — ohhhhh FUCK.
Italian.
And now we're looking for an exit. Looking for an end to the symphony of increasingly frantic moaning. Pleasure and pain intermingle seamlessly, and I'm the conductor of this fucking orchestra. Violins, here. Cellos, there. Sam, John, you know what to do.
Here we are, breaking open this fucking door, sealed for the night. It's the bathroom. Unisex, you might say. A single stall stands salitary among wet, mildew-infested tile. And suddenly, I know what Sam and John were doing in here earlier.
Ah well, no time for that frivolous nonsense now. Sodomy seems so trivial in comparison. Sam, looking at me pleadingly. John, wishing for me to explain. No fucking way, you selfish bastards. All my life I played second fiddle to your pathetic little kingdom of orgyism; Now, you're going to play second fiddle to mine.
Fuck it's dribbling. Boxer shorts were new this morning. Industrial-strength, they say. Incontinence. I planned on it this morning when I bought 'em. Good thinking, Tex. If only they made 'em in Kevlar.
We're all here, holding hands, and we know it's coming. Inevitable. Unstoppable. Immovable. It's an iron bowling ball, and we're a wooden beam in it's fucking path. If only you could feel the rumbling gasps of our brimming rectums. It's a Saturn V.
FUCK! I can't hold it off, much longer! I wish it would last forever. Orgasm after fucking orgasm.
Waves of love.
Waves so leisured.
Waves are poisoned darts of pleasure.
Shit, guys. On three. We've gotta let go. This is it. Brothers, in arms, now we count.
ONE.
And the world seems to stop.
TWO.
And the rumbling, self-imposed constipation freezes, mid-drip.
THREE!
And all of it is released in a single fucking motion. A spray auburn of silly-string spewing from three suddenly-deflated anuses. And we're through the stall door way. No locks broken; but three large holes in the metal door. The whole fucking stall is consumed. Ravaged. Broken into its base elements. The pressure wave overwhelms it.
But we're long gone.
Through the fucking bathroom wall. Into the fucking parking lot. Still fucking airborne with a stream of partially detached shit connecting our three quivering bodies. And we're still going. Beneath us, a fucking sedan. Beige, fucking beige. Who buys a fucking beige car these days, anyways?
And inside, we see the waiter from earlier. He's fucking some transvestite chick. But there ain't nothin' that can stop a shit-propelled trio. Not a waiter. Not a beige ficking car. And not a fucking transvestite. He looks up in horror. We pierce his truck with our half-bodies. And we don't fucking care.
We finally come to rest. We're sixty feet from the restaurant.
And there we are, holding hands in this bloody, excrement-sprayed parking lot. Not caring whether we live. Not caring whether we die. And fuck, Sam's dead now. In unified chorus, a cry rings out into the night, through the twisted, mangled mess that was once an Italian restaurant:
"Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, we're free at last!"
And fuck it. Now I'm dead, too.
