A Goat-Fucked Casuality
George Michael Taylor

I.

His goat-fucked naked causality would never stretch all the way over to you, no matter how much you cry, yell and piss in your trousers, accept the laws of Satan, or the Satan that lived in your bedroom for so many years as you dreamed of flayed skin and the torture of a thousand days...

George stepped into the toilet cubicle and closed the door behind him.

It seemed important that there was nobody else in the bathroom at the same time as him, that he needed more privacy than the cubicle offered but George knew from the sounds around the room that there were people in other cubicles.

A dog walked into the bathroom, George could tell. He didn't know if the dog was with anybody else. It sounded alone.

George's medication made him go to the toilet often. Usually in public places. When he was out and around at least. There were beautiful and fucked-up colours in his shit quite often. Pinks and mauves and a kind of early-morning grey.

He knew this meant that something was wrong down there, deep down in his gut but there was little that he cared to do about it, as he enjoyed the colours so much.

There was a bus stop that George liked to sit at and wait.

He called his friend George who he was in love with and was under a kind of hopeful impression was possibly in love with him also. He knew that s/he would answer because s/he never did not answer.

'Hey', said George, sounding a little out of breath.

'Were you jogging', George asked. 'I understand that it's healthy to jog'.

'No I was climbing the stairs to my flat. Somebody left a massive buggy across the first floor landing and I had to manoeuvre it out of the way. It made me want to tear up a baby'.

'I'm just getting my keys out', George said.

'I'm waiting at the bus stop. I doubt I'll get a bus but I'd like to so I can come and see you. You're very important to me'.

George said, 'I'd like that. I've just finished college for the day, I'll be in all night. We could get a pizza and make a salad. Avocados, tomatoes. You could pick up a pepper. Red or green, I don't mind.'

George stood inside the stairwell to George's flat. There was weather inside the stairwell. It was balmy and there was a slight drop of rain coming from above. He made his way up the stairs. There was no massive buggy in sight. George was glad to see this as he had planned on smashing the fucking thing to smithereens if it was still there.

George answered the door in just a towel. It was purple with blue horizontal stripes. The stripes were very thick, George thought.

'Those are thick stripes', said George.

'My dad got me this towel,' said George. 'It's probably the one I use the most'.

George had seen George in towels a lot, but he hadn't seen this one. He wondered why then gave up wondering.

They sat on George's bed eating a pepperoni pizza and salad (avocado, tomato, green pepper, soy sauce). George felt very happy and comfortable in this situation. There was an open copy of Thomas Mann's book 'The Magic Mountain' on George's bedside table.

'I'm still climbing it', s/he said, nodding at it. It looked about two-thirds read. 'Or maybe I've climbed to the top and am scaling back down. It's huge and awesome.'

George thought he'd like to read it one day. His eyes started to give way at that point and he saw blurs. 'The Magic Mountain' seemed to say mamgammgmicmamcmountaian and the colours in his eyes warped tonal shifts and colour merges. Red became black and shadows swam. This happened regularly to George but lasted only a few minutes usually.

'Are you ok? Eyes?' said George.

'Mmm'.

George reached over and let George drop his head onto his lap and s/he rubbed his hair and ears and pulled her/is fingertips across his eyebrows to relax his face. It worked.

The sky had been melting a dark blue for the past few hours. Animals in the street were at sixes and sevens, unsure of where there masters where, or where they usually found themselves camped out at this hour. One dog had most of its ear missing and was digging in a skip outside the 24-hour grocery shop for scraps and possibly a warm place to bunk down for the night.

The local cinema was showing nothing but fuck movies. The latest was a Japanese film that supposedly focused on rimming. It's title was beautiful in Japanese but had been translated into English as 'Rimfucktastikon 3'.

The queues for 'Rimfucktastikon 3' stretched all the way down the street, a lot of kids, a lot of animals, all waiting to see these Japanese actors get seriously rimmed.

Inside the cinema, the lights remained on for the duration of the film. This made the screen too bright to really see what was happening. The audio track consisted of a lot of moaning, a lot of Japanese dialogue that wasn't subtitled but it didn't matter when the screen was bright like this. The figures on screen writhed and jolted and jerked in a kind of near-brilliant whiteout, the darkness of the hairs on the performers' heads and between the legs being the giveaway as to bodily placement. People in the cinema didn't seem to care. They were jerking themselves, and throwing candy and pieces of rotten fruit at each other. The animals who had made it in all lay politely along the front row, gazing at the screen in rapture, a whole new way of viewing the strange creatures they cohabited the streets and flats with. They had never seen anything like it.

George came into her/is bedroom with a long pair of silver scissors.

'George will you cut my hair off for me? All of it, I want to feel fuzz all around my head', said George.

George got up off of the bed. He was naked. His skin gave off a dull sheen of sweat. The pair had just had sex.

'Are these safety scissors?', said George.

'Fuck is a safety scissors?' said George.

'I guess I don't know. Scisssors that won't harm your head?' said George.

'Well', said George, 'just don't cut my head up when you do this and they'll magically become safety scissors just like that'.

George pulled out a stool from underneath her/is dresser and sat down on it.

George cut. The scissors were safe.

There were thunderstorms that night. The colossal rumble tore through the sky and kept both George and George awake for the duration. S/he had her window open and the blind was halfway up/down and banging against the window. It was too hot a night to close the window so the pair endured it, embracing close. George hoped that George would one day kill him. He believed that he had to die some time soon because he had had his fortune read at a carnival. The fortune teller said that he hadn't long left. He had guessed as much with all of his problems his eyes, the colours, the tonal shifts, the toilet stops, his constant need to squeeze everything. He thought that to die at the hand of the thing he was in love with would somehow end up guaranteeing him a proper and satisfying place in the after/post life or whatever would wait for him 'on the other side'.



II.

Down by the harbour, on the eastern coast of the town, stand three pyramids. One is made from iron, one of stone, and one of wood. They each reside at the end of a long boardwalk. Mostly kids hang out in them, do drugs, fuck, cast spells, transform into animals such as dogs, raccoons, large cats. The pyramid made of stone however has been shut off to visitors for as long as anybody in the town can remember. It makes a hum at night and occasionally a cold blue glow can be seen around it when it's very, very dark. It is the smallest of the three pyramids.

The pyramid speaks. It calls out shopping lists, long complicated math, it reads from scripts for movies, mostly pornography. When it does this some people like to gather round, sit on the boardwalk, open some beers and hope to learn something, or at least just to be fucking entertained by something.

Most people pass by though, sick to the hind teeth of its bullshit. The stone pyramid and its endless chattering bullshit.

George sat in the library reading a Japanese Manga comic. The book was about, as far as he could tell, a group of four robot ants who ran up girls skirts without their knowledge and filmed what they saw there and put it out on the internet for gasping viewers to pay to watch. The story seemed to make no sense for a long time, and George got very confused about his state of mind until he remembered that Japanese Manga was read from right to left, and he was reading it like a Western book, left to right.

There was a small riot going on in the corner of the library. A number of people were protesting about the amount of animals and animal waste that was constantly being deposited, stepped on, not cleaned up by the library staff. The library had become a kind of home for the strays, the stray dogs and spiders mostly. The spiders cast giant webs across the aisles so that to get to some of the books could be tricky, sticky, uncomfortable for the library users. The protesters started a small fire and the dogs ran out of the building. Some of the spiders had huddled in a high corner and were creating a large web cocoon for protection.

One of the spiders screamed, 'GO HOME YOU FUCKERS'

If it seems desperate then I can always kill myself. If George won't, thought George. There has to be a way that I can die that's comfortable and not too terrifying. I mean, I don't think I want to die but I'm also afraid that if I don't fulfil this fortune then something in the world will unhinge, an axis will tilt all awkward or something awful will happen to somebody I love i.e. George. Maybe I could jump into the harbour, or walk into one of the open pyramids when one of the magick kids are shapeshifting and hope its like a lion or tiger and that it'd eat me. Perhaps then that would have some kind of cosmically beneficial consequence, I don't know. Things should be easier for me like it is for some people, but I can't know what people's lives are like without talking to them and I guess I never talk to most people.

George met George in a small cafe near the local cinema. There was a queue once again for 'Rimfucktastikon 3', although George was sure that the '3' in the title had changed to '2'. Maybe they got it wrong the first time, or perhaps they decided to show the older ones due to complaints that the third one wasn't making sense without the back-story of the previous films.

George ordered a brownie and mint tea. George ordered nothing at first, then when George was partway through the brownie (large, moist, gooey, rich) he asked for the exact same. The mint tea was strong, and George felt a low rumble in his gut.

'A boy brought his cat into class today and dissected it in front of us', said George. 'I couldn't figure out why. He was screaming 'gaslamp' over and over while he did it. It took several minutes for security to remove him from the room, but they just left the dead cat on the table for the rest of the lesson. The lesson was on Joyce and Nonsense'.

'That is beyond fucked. I feel like I would want to see it happen though. I'd like to hear how the cat sounded as it was being cut up. Still, why would somebody do that.' said George.

'I don't know. He didn't seem like the type that would do something like that but then who does really. You're right, it's beyond all fuckedness', said George.

George's gut was really starting to scrunch up and bubble. He excused himself and went to the toilet. Once inside the cubicle he felt relaxed. There was nobody else in the bathroom at them time and he began to sing the song 'Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head' whilst taking a shit. It was a smooth and long one, and came out without any extra effort on George's part. He heard the door go as somebody else came in but it just sounded like a dog so he carried on singing. Once finished, he wiped his ass (three times getting up inside the asshole to make sure it was completely dry) and stepped outside of the cubicle. A man on all fours was by the sink, looking up at him expectantly. George walked past him and left the bathroom.

'Can we go', they both said.

A man of about 35 years was sitting on a Kashmiri Sufi prayer rug out on the street when George and George left the cafe. The prayer rug had diamond and medallion and floral motifs, all interlaced and patterned to generate the holiest of balances it seemed. He had an amplifier next to him and in front of him were a number of electronic guitar pedals. He had no guitar. The pedals were plugged into a mixer which, along with the amplifier, was being powered by a small generator that sat behind the man's right shoulder. He had plugged the output of the pedals into the input sockets of the mixer, and so the sound was pure feedback. He slowly and very deliberately tweaked and nudged at different knobs on the mixer, and George and George stood for several minutes watching this holy man absorbed in his sonic ritual.

'This is great', said George.

'It makes me want to strip down and rub myself on the ground and gravel, in the dirt here', s/he said.

'We could do that', said George. 'I would do that with you'.

The queue for the original, and best apparently, 'Rimfucktastikon' started to crawl into the cinema. It was less long of a line than normal, it seemed to George and George, less dogs certainly (perhaps they tired of all the rimming, rutting, idiotic humans onscreen, or just simply understood that it was more of the fucking same), this thought George and George, lying naked on the pavement in front of the tight-eyed shaman nodding along to an infinite feedback loop.

George took George's cock in his hand and sucked greedily on his balls. George immediately became hard and couldn't fathom how it had taken this long for him to get sucked off naked in the dirt on the street. George lay his hand underneath his ass and prodded and poked at the warm asshole that screamed and yelled for George's cock. The shaman continued to rock steadily back and forth on his Kashmiri prayer rug. People walked by, tired from work, or on their way to the cinema. This was no live sex show, they realised this was a black-heated passion that deserved shunned eyes.

George gently and lovingly pulverised George's asshole and reds turned to black, and the shadows began to warp and twist and the moon which was out in its full green pulse covered the pair like a prayer rug, like a torture sheet, like the original swaddling of the first child. George and George came together and, and, the moon, the fuckingnc moooomoonn.

END






George Michael Taylor was born in Edinburgh where he studied photography and film. He worked variously as a writer, artist, musician and dj, bookseller and cheesemonger. George died in London on 29 March 2014, aged 31.