Courtesy of the wonderful CPRM
Wartimus reclined on the roof of his father’s house and watched the stars glitter in the darkness of a moonless night. He had spent the summer making up his own erotic constellations and was languidly masturbating to them when the sky exploded with purple light. He dropped his erection as he tracked the burning band of fire of a meteor streaking earthward. It hit the ground with a boom and another flash of light that burned the silhouette of the trees into his retinas.
Wartimus stood, put his penis away, and ran to the edge of the roof. A column of smoke rose, lit up by the distant city beyond. The meteorite was obviously close, possibly in the forest that made up the bulk of his father’s vast estate. He climbed down from the roof and in through his bedroom window. The phone was ringing before he had even made it inside.
“What was that?” Simon demanded as soon as Wartimus picked up the phone. “Are we being bombed? I told you we were going to get bombed. We live too close to the dam!”
“It wasn’t a bomb, Simon,” he told the panicking boy. He cradled the receiver in his neck and pulled on a pair of thick canvas pants.
“There’s that big military base, where they test those missiles. Did they hit it?”
“It wasn’t a bomb, Simon. I was up on the roof. It was a meteor.” Wartimus set down the phone to tie his boots.
Simon’s voice squeaked from the receiver. “Don’t they have nerve gas at that base? Which way is the wind blowing? WHICH WAY IS THE WIND BLOWING?”
“Simon! Calm the fuck down!” Wartimus said, picking the phone back up. “It was a meteor. Get dressed for hiking and get over here.”
“It’s one in the morning,” Simon said, breathing heavily into the phone.
“It’s a meteor, Simon. You know how much those things are worth if there is anything left of it? Grab your backpack and get over here. I leave in ten.” Wartimus hung up the phone before the other boy could say anything else. Simon dealt best with ultimatums.
Wartimus turned in the mirror on the front of his closet door, shirtless. He flexed a few times and dropped to the floor for a dozen push-ups. His body was naturally muscular from his father’s experiments–the shots given to his mother when she was carrying him and the constant training growing up, but it wasn’t enough; Wartimus wanted to be bigger. All the other 12-year-olds at school looked like children. He had seen some the teachers watching him as he prowled the halls of his middle school like a panther. In a year, maybe two, he’d fuck a couple of them, he knew. Valuable experience before he hit high school and the girls his own age finally filled out.
Wartimus put on a tight tee that showed off his pecs and a loose, heavy black shirt over it. He slipped his father’s Walther PPK into the front pocket of the pants after checking the safety. His father knew he had taken the gun from the compound’s armory. Wartimus could have claimed something more powerful as his personal weapon but he was a good shot with Walther and knew the gun, field stripping it over and over again while blindfolded and timing himself. Flashlight, knife and his communicator clipped onto his nylon utility belt.
Checking the time again, he went back out his bedroom window, dropped to the ground and raided the garden shed for a five-gallon plastic bucket with a sealable lid and asbestos gloves. He was just closing the shed when he heard labored breathing enter the yard. Simon. The boy dropped his bag loudly at the gate into the backyard and leaned over, his hands on his knees.
Wartimus crept up on him and said, “Be quiet. My father is still up.”
Simon yelped in surprise, despite gulping down air.
“I ran over,” he managed, “Like, the whole way.”
“What did you bring?” Wartimus asked.
“Tongs,” he gasped. “Safety glasses,” he gasped. “Flashlight,” he gasped.
“OK, wait here. I’ve got to go back inside for something.”
“You told me to hurry,” Simon said. Wartimus patted him on the back hard enough for the pudgy boy to almost fall over.
“I’ll be right back,” he told the wheezing figure.
Wartimus used the code to open the back yard security door. There was soft music playing in the den, so he used the kitchen stairs to go down to his into his father’s laboratory. The giant vault door leading into the lab was already open.
The imposing figure of Professor Hieronymus Riesigmann loomed before Wartimus in one of his bespoke lab coats. The lab took up the entire basement of the mansion. Rows upon rows of merciless white lights bore down on stainless steel work surfaces and fittings. His father worked in the enormous space alone but the endless cabinets of equipment could have supported a staff of hundreds. It was all familiar to Wartimus from long hours playing here after his mother disappeared: the dials and switches of the interface for the buried reactor, the omnipresent hum of transformers, the hulking capacitors, the black slabs of isolation tanks, the crackling Tesla coils that he suspected were purely for ambiance. His father’s house had many rules but the most steadfast and unwavering was that this space was always referred to as his laboratory, and never his lair.
“You need to learn to sneak better, son,” Hieronymus said. “You’re almost 13-years-old. At your age, my parents had no idea what all I was up to in the middle of the night.”
“Did their house have motion sensors and security keypads everywhere?”
“Not the point, my boy. Not the point at all. Learning to sneak around in a 1950s house would do you no good. Technology never rests and we mustn’t either.”
Wartimus nodded.
“So,” his father asked, “What were you down here to pilfer? I better not catch you pawning my equipment.”
“I was merely going to borrow the Geiger counter.”
“Got a radiation leak in your bedroom? I thought you just masturbated up there these days,” he said with a toothy grin. Wartimus had tried to build a nuclear weapon when he was ten and his father never let an opportunity to bring it up go by.
“No, I was up on the roof and saw a meteor. It impacted somewhere on the estate, I think. I wanted to take a Geiger counter with me.”
“Nonsense. Meteorites have negligible radioactivity. You know that.” His father reached to ruffle his hair but Wartimus backed away from the condescending gesture.
“But what if it’s not a natural meteorite? It could be something man-made,” he said. He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “What if it is Russian?” His father was an unreconstructed Cold Warrior, always ready to pit his individual American intellect against the hive mind of communism.
“Space rock or spy satellite, eh? And you are going to look for it? Excellent. A good use for a summer night. I’ll let you have the Geiger, it’s a sensible precaution if the power source is breached. But as rent for the counter and punishment for getting caught sneaking out, I claim all the iridium from the impactor or any photographic film from a satellite.”
“Father…” Wartimus began.
“It’s more than fair, boy. The iridium is of little use to you anyway, we all know who does the high-temperature recrystallization of semiconductors in this house.”
“Yes, sir,” Wartimus said.
“And the photos might be of the estate. Those Soviet bastards have been after me for years,” his father said.
Wartimus watched as father retrieved the Geiger counter. Despite all the late night nuclear safety drills, the painful martial arts training, the experimental weight-training regimen, and the cold knowledge that he might have to one day kill the old man in a struggle for primate dominance, Wartimus still loved and respected his father. And, more importantly to his otherwise jocular father, Wartimus still feared him.
“Here you go, son,” Hieronymus said as he handed over the olive drab counter. “Watch the needle; too many rems will fry your wedding tackle. I’ll accept no bald-headed telekinetic grandchildren in this house!”
Wartimus nodded and turn to go.
“Just kidding,” his father called after him. “Bring on the little freaks. We’ll sell ‘em to the carnival, my boy.”
His father’s laughter chased him up the stairs.
“He had spent the summer making up his own erotic constellations and was languidly masturbating to them”
What…what did I just read? Disaster movie erotica?
I assume that on cloudy nights he used his stucco ceiling instead.
The ceiling wasn’t stucco… at first.
Leda and the Swan
W. B. Yeats
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
That’s similar to the difference between Led Zeppelin saying ‘I got a woman, wanna ball all day’ and 2 Live Crew saying ‘pop that pussy’. I’m not saying which is better, as the art is in the eye of the beholder, but there is a difference between euphemisms and blatant coarseness.
Also, I enjoyed the piece
How do you drop an erection?
If you have to ask . . .
I just tried, but it’s still there.
let go, disengaged, dry docked, stopped stroking, decommissioned, disarmed, unpeenulated
Play a recording of Barack Obama talking about “Bitter Clingers”.
Bitter Cringers, Amirite?
I’d say “Racist!” but I just stumbled upon this movie
http://madmovieman.com/1840-rish-man-做次有钱人-2012/
A pic of the former FLOTUS would work, as well.
I disagree, Michelle was attractive. Perhaps a pic of any of President Obama’s Supreme Court appointments would do the trick
Watch an episode of Girls?
Like so.
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=byDiILrNbM4
Read one of SF’s Hillary stories.
Err, ummm, uggghh…
*slinks away in shame*
premature ejaculation? Happens to the best of us.
Not me of course.
According to legend, the doomcock is detachable.
Drop it like it’s hot
I hope it didn’t damage the tile.
Colour … Warty’s a limey?
Even HPL, notorious Anglophile, wouldn’t have done that, you monster!
My God, I must have missed that atrocious spelling. This is unacceptable.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Colour_Out_of_Space
You just got Sugasplain’d!
Sugasplain’d sounds like something a pimp would say.
I like it.
My bitch better have my money
Through rain, sleet, or snow
My whore better have my money
Not half, not some, but all my cash
‘Cause if she don’t,
I’m gonna put my foot in her ass
Pimp’n ain’t easy but it is necessary..
Eek, SugarTrapped!
This, I shall never live down.
You know, it’s a funny thing, I was thinking about The King In Yellow today.
That’s because he was thinking about you…
And we will all be desecrated…
Wartimus Riesigmann is obviously the Secret Nazi name, because SF isn’t above plagiarism.
Submit it to Tween Vogue.
Not enough anal sex for them.
Yet….
Maybe he can try those techniques on his algebra teacher?
“He dropped his erection as he tracked the burning band of fire of a meteor streaking earthward.”
I have a feeling that would have caused significant damage to the roof.
“Just kidding,” his father called after him. “Bring on the little freaks. We’ll sell ‘em to the carnival, my boy.”
Brilliant!
It’s like reading history written with lightning. My only regret is that it is all so terribly true.
Warty Hugeman origin story? And you didn’t use this chance to call him Lil’ Warty? I am disappoint.
Lil’ Warty is for a far younger Warty.
http://wartyhugeman.blogspot.com/2014/04/suitable-for-ages-3-and-up.html
Lil’ Warty doesn’t get a name until it’s used on the aforementioned algebra teacher’s anus.
I think Brendan O’Neill may be my long lost Irish Marxist brother.
The best potato nigger.
Why aren’t they beating him up? He’s obviously a Nazi.
Q. What’s an Irish 7-course meal?
A. A six-pack and a potato.
You’d probably have better luck with a beer.
Its like Hardy Boys meets 90s Internet Erotica
Simon the Sidekick LOL
I’m almost afraid to read this. I don’t know if it’s SF’s initial attempt at children’s books, as I predicted earlier, or if it’s something more twisted and definitely not family site friendly, as the last Hillary and Bernie escapade.
It’s a classic Boys’ Own-style adventure, slightly updated for modern sensibilities. A touching yet pulse-pumping story of friendship, exploration and growing up. 10/10, super family-friendly, would watch Netflix show from the creators of Stranger Things.
It’ll get cancelled once they find out about all the steroids they’re pumping into the twelve year old.
We’ll explain that as “edgy Captain America”.
Imagine Tom Swift, without the wordplay, dropped into an E.E. ‘Doc’ Smith world, that includes eldritch terrors, set in the basement of Wardenclyffe – the *lower* basement, where Tesla researched some special devices which would use his magnifying transmitter technology – Oh, and six-packs. Six-packs and tentacles.
I was going to say, despite being late to the party, that I was reminded of Tom Swift.
Reading Sugarfree makes for good birth control. Because after reading it, all you want is to get your hands on some Pepto-Bismal.
Pepto-Bismal
A funny nick-name for your penis?
Is it because it’s pink and stops someone from pooping?
Sugarfree- in honor of the day, you should transport Warty’s Doomcock to Manhattan, to piss in the World’s Largest Urinal.
OMG, another terrorist attack?!! Oh, wait. It’s Sugarfree.
A distinction without a difference? You decide.
Now I can’t stop saying “Time Twavel”.
Now I can’t stop saying “Time Twavel”.
“Kiww da wabbit?!”
Important news of the day
Hackers could program sex robots to kill
http://nypost.com/2017/09/11/hackers-could-program-sex-robots-to-kill/
+1 Priss
Whoops. I ‘s’ too many. Pris
Ugh. SF’ed Pris
You’re obviously not a replicant.
I could plausibly be Leon Kowalski. As replicants go, he was a total fuckup.
How is your mother anyway?
He’s the legendary sixth replicant, who was actually cut from the film because he couldn’t spell or link.
Ridley Scott thought the comic relief angle was the wrong way to go with the movie.
Musk wrote that, didn’t he?
We’re going to have a worldwide pants shortage if the media doesn’t stop constantly shitting into them.
Wartimus. I lol’d.
The last time I saw anything like this was during the SARS epidemic in Shanghai. Workers would wash the subway stations down every night with bleach.
http://www.mercurynews.com/2017/09/11/san-diego-to-begin-street-washing-amid-hepatitis-outbreak/
Crews will use bleach-spiked water for the high-pressure washing of surfaces that may be contaminated with feces, blood or other bodily fluids. The virus lives in human feces.
See that? That’s the last reason I have to visit California flying away.
Hepatitis outbreak *among the homeless*. They’re doing it to whatever passes for skid row in SD, it’s not like NOLA where they have to hose human and horse excretia off of the roads in the wee hours when the drunks have passed out every day.
“other bodily fluids”
Paging Teenage Girl…
Anthony Weiner has a pager? Damn, how retro.
Ain’t that the truth.
Am I the only one picturing Warty’s father as Burt Gummer?
I kind of imagine equal parts Teddy Roosevelt and Negan.
Close enough.
Don’t forget some Einstein.
I take it you escaped from FL without incident?
I was picturing Jonas Venture.
I’m not finding the gay angle. And I read it word-for-word.
SF, if you saw the Framed prints on my wall, I’d say You plagiarized me, Seriously, I had custom artwork done by the same site and had them framed.
“Just kidding,” his father called after him. “Bring on the little freaks. We’ll sell ‘em to the carnival, my boy.”
I can only hope he was wearing a, “Greatest Father Ever” t-shirt under the lab coat.