Dr. X. Returns With the Longest (2873 words!) Lupus Installment Yet!

You're probably asking yourself, Why do the boys persist in writing such a long, multi-authored, meta-narrative about a boy werewolf? Didn't they read last week's Time magazine article declaring that zombies have returned in a big way as the official "It" monster of the terrorism years: "There are these large groups of faceless people somewhere in the world who mean to do us harm and cannot be reasoned with. Zombies are sort of familiar territory" (Time). Maybe so, but we believe that young Lupus is a trenchant metaphor for the economic crisis, the submerged populist rage, the possibility of being normal (i.e rich) one minute and clawing and scratching on the sidewalks the next. And don't the boys realize that the new trend is "literary mash-ups" in which monsters exist within the world of established literary works, such as the current bestseller Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, which receives an "A-" from Entertainment Weekly's review (" At a neighborhood ball, 
Elizabeth, Darcy, and Bingley come upon unmentionables feeding on some slaughtered servants. Says Mr. D: 
''I don't suppose...that you would give me the honour of dispensing of this unhappy business alone. I should never forgive myself if your gown were soiled.'"). Well, readers, yes, we do realize the popularity of such literary mash-ups and in fact Richard is currently at work on an installment in which Holden Caulfied and Harry Lupus collide ("If you really want to hear about it, you'll probably want to hear about that goddam phony werewolf kid I roomed with at Pencey for awhile."). And Chip himself is writing a Great Gatsby Meets Lupus piece (guess what: the minor character of Meyer Wolfsheim is a werewolf!).

But in the meantime, readers, Dr. X returns with a piece so long that Richard threatened to cut it (and still insists that the first scene can be skipped altogether to "tighten things up"). But Dr. X. insists that its very length is essential to its themes. So we present it to you as the creator intends, in all its vulgar glory. It begins, as all of Dr. X's best tales begin, with an orgy. Enjoy!



*yawn*

Scene: Saturday, April 11th, 20XT9. Dr. X wakes up. The LED readout on his alarm spells out the hour: 1:00 PM. The day has begun.

Dr. X casts off Hoe #1 who has been resting on his arm far too long and caused it to fall asleep. Considering the opportunity, Dr. X fails to masturbate himself with yon sleepy arm feeling the thought too trite and his own imagination/ suspension of disbelief that it was someone else 'filling the knockworst casing" too limited by his own endrunkening of the night prior. He barks out a second yawn, and occasional, smallish elements of something cascade out his mouth and fall onto the glistening ass of Hoe #3 (who herself is snuggled closely to Hoe #1 and, now, Hoe #2 in the Hoepile occupying his roundish bed -- because -- in this universe, DR. X WAS THE DIAMOND SQUIRE OF AN ENFUCKING LAST NIGHT, YO! ... Yes. He. Was. Bitches.).

Back to reality.

X grabs his robe and discarded bottles of Santana DVX that litter his bedroom chamber/ swingset.

He heaves a deep sigh. "Messy bitches," the good doctor dismisses with one obligatory swing of his junk... elements of which are still stuck under the leather midget. Some dude named "Chang: the YouTuber." X makes a mental note and a chuckle that, apart from his leathery exterior, Chang: the You Tuber rightly resembles his earthly potato namesake. And that was the shit.

And this is some BLACK DYNAMITE SHIT, right here. But for a white guy. And Arsenio Hall still may show up at any time.

YOU. JUST. DON'T. KNOW,

Scene II: The Quickening

Dr. X leaves his bedchamber to drain the lizard, stopping by the refrigerator to drink a Frosty Bottle of Quik. Breakfast of Champions.

What? You thought this was some kinda Highlander shit or maybe some kind of swift allusion to Kurt Vonnegut. Yah. Fuck all that. This is hard core meta-commentary. The kinda Charlie Kaufman fuck that I had to sit through for three fucking hours in Synechdoche, NY. And I still don't know why that fucking house was on fire the entire time.

This shit will make sense. And there will be a reckoning. There can be only one. (THAT was a motherfucking Highlander reference. And the only one worth retelling, you shiftless wretches. Word.).

Back to the matter at hand. The orgy zone smelled of the rank stench of enumerable sweaty bodies. And a leathery midget. It would take weeks to air the stench of ass and jelly and what mighty be some kind of bedroozle of a chicken-friend steak/ Onion Loaf from the premises. And there was a good chance Dr. X might lay waste to the maid's ass when she came by to attend to this because that's how we roll in Alternate Earth X where werewolves and zombies and mother fucking supermen get their shit on.

But that shit probably wouldn't happen because then the house would not be clean. And we like the shit clean. And smoothe. And with a little camera-weilding midget.

I digress.

Given the rank, Dr. X took his Quik and his junk and entered the library practically like a Clue-Embedded Slippy Dick. The stench of ass and fuck were soon replaced by the smells of oily wood and rich mahogany. "That's the stink of a man," he mused. But today he would not pick up his favorite leather-bound volume "The Buttress of Windsor" nor serenade his embattled senses with the dulcet gravel of one Leonard Cohen. Because everything Leonard Cohen sings is sexual and layered with the goosefat of one million fuckings. Like Wilt "the Stilt" but by a factor of 10. Maybe a hundred. The Doctor doesn't do math. He pays for that shit. No, on this day, X decided he would load up the internet and see where the last few episodes of the most important fucking drama ever to unfold in any language, genre or fucking can of beer, Harry Lupus: Boy Werewolf, was and this is what he saw:

"I am two people.

I’ve never quite reconciled the dichotomy.

This book is a step toward understanding…

The sense that I comprise two people who aren’t always compatible never left me.

…at odds with my folks’ ideas and instructions on how to live life. "

"What the fuck?" mumble the Doctor. Admitted, his junk was erect as a banana as pointed as an obelisk, the seat of fucking fertility (which may be redundant)... because the Doctor gets hard for literary shit -- but this is not what he came here to see!

He read on:

"What is the werewolf model for Harry? What werewolf archetypes will be employed? What modern twists will he have? What werewolf literature will be slyly referenced and ironically employed? What will Harry’s “werewolfness” be a metaphor for? Can’t he just be a werewolf, and not a metaphor? It’s tiring always having to stand in for something else – seems deceitful too. If you want to represent how difficult it is to be something, don’t be something else and have us have to make the leap. Werewolves have it hard, without also having to stand in for the gay community, or immigrant cultures, or social stradd..."

...IN THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT!? What crazy ass Literary Theory class am I living in."

Dr. X vaulted from his chair and snagged the better part of his baby-seal and marmet-fur lined robe on his EX-FUCKING-SQUISITE Leather-Backed, Queen-Anne Wingback... more of a pimp throne than any seat of the soul. And smashed his head on the seat of his creation (meaning he fell on his ass). And therein, it was quite a lucid scene what he did saw as he entered the Dreaming of Harry Lupus.

Scene III: Welcome to Mother-Fucking Fifth dimension of Impressiveness

Dr. X's head hurt. And this time it wasn't an allusion to sex. But he craned his ears to the winds and picked up the scent of a conversation:

"How many of those Emo motherfuckers are there?" Coach asked. "Let's get 'em, Harry." He rushed at them, his seatshirt hanging loose on his now long and muscular body.

X sat back and realized his ass was on the toilet. The king had found his throne. But what in the hell was his gnarled ass doing in some High School Stall. And where were the hoes? WHERE WERE ThE HOES? The bitch tried to regain his composure. This was clearly some kind of messed up fever dream bought on by the nights of high octane, pimped up freaky shit brought about by a combination of ludes, hoes, ...and that little potatoe mother fucker probably had some kinda Oompa Loompa bullshit to do with it.

With ruckus abounding. X pushed open the stall door to see what in fuck was going on.

The toilet stalls opened and out came Ben, his body transformed into a half-rat humanoid.

"WHAT THE SHIT IS THIS FUCK?" screamed Dr. X as his eyes did see this crazy fucker with black, greasy fur dripping with toilet water. Now the other stalls opened and out came more wererats.

"'WERERATS?' WHAT THE FUCK ARE WERERATS!?!" he yelled wondering where this strange free indirect discourse was coming from in the form of audible, slightly pervie narration, like he was trapped in a poorly constructed Will Ferrell movie that oddly contained both not a puma or some kind of bear! Or even mention of another type of Jungle Cat... and where the fuck was Paul Rudd? His ass would know what this shit was all about because that asshole is the brainy, sensitive motherfucker in every bromance whose exposition clears up the air for the slick, idled wang like Dr. Fucking X who can't get his shit straight when there are fucking WERERATS and a tubby bitch who suspiciously looks like... Nah... what in hell would HE be doing in his pimp cellar with women abouts. This ain't Quintins!

Yah. I used even more allusive shit to suggest fluid boundaries between this world, the Harry World and at least half a dozen fucking Will Ferrell movies that sucked (Except for Anchorman -- where that shit was phat!)... What of it? Do you wanna get literary or fucking not? I thought so. It's called Roman a Clef, and Hemingway made much mint on this shit. Let us resume.

Still confused. X closed the doors to bot the stall and his barn door and heard a godlike voice intoning: Behind Ben and in the other stalls, still more Emo-rats were pulling their skinny, flexible bodies out of the toilets.

The two varsity boys holding her tossed Wilhelmina roughly to the ground. Her head cracked hard on the concrete floor and she grunted as the wind came out of her. Harry wanted to help her, but looking at her half-naked body made him think only one thing. His boner was practically ripping its way out of his heans, and his clawed hands looked no good for rendering aid.

"WHO THE FUCK IS WHILO-FUCKING-MANIA?" But Dr. X heard this shit in his head... but he could also hear this shit clear as day in binaural fucking sound! This was some crazy shit right here! And some how he had traversed lines of magic and portal fantasy -- but his mother fucking Quick did not make the journey. And it was a good thing he was in a stall because his ass was scared and he was pretty sure he had pinched a yard of loaf off directly into the bowl. But that shit is sick -- so let's get back to the narrative.

Though he could see nothing, he could hear everything, and words created deep pictures in the seat of his imagination:

...he looked at Coach, ["NO, I FUCKING DON'T! WHO IN FUCK IS COACH? I DON'T WATCH ANY FUCKING CRAIG T. NELSON SHIT!"] who was tearing a hunk of flesh off a wererat. ["HOLY SHIT!"] The scent of blood filled Harry's nostrils. ["HARRY? HARRY? Oh hell... I'm in some kinda LOST fucking thing. My ass is thru the Looking Glass!"] He wanted to dive into the frenzy and feel flesh between his teeth, let the blood run down his throat and gobble the meat in great chunks.

Instead, he turned and loped off on all fours, looking for a place to hide.

"FUCK ALL THAT!" Dr. X cried! See, Dr. X figured that if he had some how tripped the Light Fantastic into Harry's universe. Then there was no way in Doughy that he was gonna let some crazy Werevermin beat the ever-loving snot out of Harry and possibly turn his favorite would-be cum-possible Boy Werewolf into some kinda half-bred effed up rat-dog thing. So, Dr. X bent the rules of an already skewed reality and reshaped the universe like

Donnie.

Fucking.

Darko!

And no one should see this sequel bullshit. THERE IS NO SEQUEL TO DONNIE DARKO!

X erupted from the stall with a rather conveniently, if not straight out Resident Evil V placed, chain gun and laid much waste to every single thing he didn't know to be Harry or K!p, where the ! stood for adventure! Shit literally flew. Mostly because in this, or any other dimensional possibility, Dr. X can no more carry the weight and force of mega-ffucking fire power no more than less than five hoes can carry the immense weight of his swollen gonads... so his shot was erratic at best.

But many a possible extra character that might be brought back to life later at some point of the story where character and plot development have allowed for the inclusion of superfluous figures and their timely subnarrative might be included. But since this is some kinda LOST shit and since ben Linus tells me that, even on the island, "Dead is Dead," when these fuckers come back... there's a really good shot that they will be ZOMBIE-WERERAT, HIPSTER MOTHER FUCKERS! (Because anything with such a convoluted, yet illy-thought out, history and piss-ably [yeah -- fucking pun!] contradictory sense of self, would likely be a hipster. And they would not be hipsters who would get much laid at M*tt C!o+#!#r show. No -- they'd be the serious unlaid type that would hang at the back of the Jackpot bitching about why the Fucking Tr@nsm!ttens go on and on about the Puffy Sparkle Clouds shit and don't just fuck right there on the stage -- It's called performance art you little Casio-playing bastards with your merry, sing-songy horseshit! ... Oh fuck... am I at a parenthesis or a bracket cum parenthesis??? Fuck it. End of thought.)

The point is. Many people lay, now, much dead... until their Zombie-were-rat-reawakening... which as any hipster knows will occur no earlier than at 10pm and will very likely be at least an hour late until the hot dog guy feeds every one and much PBR abounds. So, Dr. X put his massive hand cannon down. And his gun too.

Littered amongst the dead were people he knew to be Mr. Strictland... a very likely leader of the Zombie hordes to come, The Coach... because he never knew exactly what the fuck that guy was all about any way, Quist and Whilomania and alot of other people he had no idea who in hell they were because it took too damn long to read all this shit on a fucking blog where 140 characters were supposed to rule the day and... awe shit... same thing abounds here.

X looked and K!p and Harry. They nodded in each other's general direction and they left the school. What the hell else were they supposed to do, I just went back in time and blew the joint straight to Evil Dead II. It's not like any fucking class was going to on or some such. And NO... there was no death of regular everyday folk or anything fucking tragic. Listen: fucking giant wererats and slothbeasts and werewolves were running amuck in the fucking bathroom stalls? Use your heads! Do you THINK people stuck around and let that shit play out while giant dogs and rats and wildebeats ate and fucked and shit everywhere? No. Three paragraphs past the description of Whilomina's dashboard confessional t-shirt and the entire school cleared out just like the last episode of fucking Buffy when the whole school got swallowed by the Hellmouth and no one, except that hot She-Demon, died!

Deal with it. Every human is fine. And Dr. X, K!p and harry are on a boat. Why? Because they had a hard fucking day. That's why!

Scene IV: On a Boat.

Don't ask difficult questions like: Where did the boys get this boat? Or: why would they retreat to a boat to drink good wine and lay out with the fine, fine ladies of this universe -- like Muffy Whatsherface and the new girl: Bunny Hopsnscotch (both of whom were now partaking of much break as they laid out in their two-pieces and drank fine, fine Santana DVX while the boys soaked up the fleeting rays of daylight on an otherwise strangely balmly dusk). What's important is that these characters, of whom, it appeared Dr. X now might be one in one of those American theft jobs like Life on Mars, might be in some importantly new reality where this sort of thing happened on a regular basis. So, why not partake?

Oh sure... there was a chance that he was on a boat with K!p and a potentially a boy werewolf... but there was also such a chance that anyone who masturbated as much as Harry purported to might have some kinda crazy full-body reverse alopecia or some shit brought about by laying such waste to one's own junk. And where did such vital supplies of manjuice come from, X considered as he tipped one back watching the sun dip in the sky. Pound thought that the spunk as stored in a special compartment near the pituitary gland, but Pound was much fucked in his head and broke one of gertrude Stein's favorite chairs with t hat horseshit. And that horseshit could not stand in this universe. But it had been quite a day, and he was very likely surrounded by werewolfs... all of whom seemed to be sizing up K!p's fleshy mass, coddled as it was by the banana-hammock bearing containing neither his girth nor his fuzzy buckles, and this shit might get odd and freaky as the hour closed in on moonrise.

...but that's some shit we'll figure out in the next adventure.

Until then, he thought, beautiful words sank into his lazy brain as he noodled off to sleep:

Oh oh here she comes

Watch out boy, she’ll chew you up

Oh oh here she comes

She’s a maneater.

N.ggle thinks about Muffy. Cl.thier thinks about Muffy. Dr. C thinks about breasts. Dr. X thinks about muff. But what about Harry? Poor Harry. Watch out boy, she’ll chew you up.

What does that shit'all mean? And what happens when the zombie-were-rat horde awakens from their state of unfuckedness? And will Dr. X ever return to his sleepy hoes?

Stay tuned.

I ain't even spell checking this shit!