THE PLIGHT OF VICENTE

The Epic Short Story Volume 1 Omnibus I

⚡⚡⚡Warning: Triggering, graphically violent, sexually explicit, emotionally disturbing, & other things that make words worth reading. ⚡⚡⚡

Prologue

The year 2018 ended my sentence in a non-corporeal form, having served God’s purpose. While happy my time as a ghost ended, I ruminate the hundreds of years prior to my Heavenly ascension. The struggle in the ghostly purgatory compels me to share the tale before entering eternal bliss. Heed my warning!

Chapter 1. Ye Old Bungholery!

Twas 1435 when death stole me during my fat wife’s screeching, “Geet yer cock out of the gloryhole!” In my head’s turn to her pointing and screaming, sudden pain struck my lower back as the frightened donkey behind me kicked. Bucking and smashing me against the wall, still penetrated by my manhood, the donkey crumpled me to the barn’s dirt floor. Writhing in pain ended with a final crushing hoof to the skull that stole the world in blackness, leaving only the wife’s voice fading, “You geet what you deserved, you bastard!”

Dead. For a time. Then darkness. Then a distant glow. Suddenly, I raced through a dimensionless tunnel toward the light and soon emerged like a shit bucket dumped from a window. Unscathed from the brutal death, I stood, and before me, giant feet rested under legs that stretched upward, forming a massive, white-bearded man sitting upon an enormous throne of gold. God!

Unsure what to do, having never believed in God, I stared aimlessly about the room's marble floors and white walls, empty except for the throne and God. I expected more furniture in Heaven but did not get the opportunity to voice this opinion, for God leaned forward and bellowed, “Vince.”

“Vicente,” I corrected.

“Whatever. Having lived a lecherous, corrupt life boozing and for just not liking you, I condemn you to walk the earth as a ghost until you serve my will. Upon completing your task, you may enter my kingdom.”

“Okay, Lord, but what do you want me to do?”

“Silence, fool. Return to the Earth and serve my will.” God waved a hand, and I stood on my little farm in England. Scratching my head, not understanding the purpose of this earthly sentence, I shrugged and returned to the gloryhole’s pleasuring. Entering the barn and placing my manhood into the wall’s hole behind the donkey stall, I waited, but nothing happened. I knocked on the barn wall but cursed, seeing my hand pass through the wood. “Damn thee, Lord.” I was a ghost, just as he said a minute prior.

Slowly sticking my head through the wall and looking down revealed the farm lass and the field hand romping like stray dogs. The tastiness of the scene did not escape notice and began much stroking and leering. Invisibility's benefits now formed endless possibilities made even better by lack of hunger or need to sleep.

“Who is the fairest maiden of them all?” I questioned, hoisting my trousers while leaving the barn. Nodding and smiling to thoughts of the tavern owner’s daughter, who all the townsmen thought a delicious fantasy began a walk to town. Arriving and watching the young maiden serve drinks as her ripe, inviting bosom challenged her dress for freedom and affirmed their opinion. Hours of pleasure passed until the tavern closed, and though not thirsty, the mugs of ale lining the bar tempted but disappointed my immaterial tongue that tasted no drink.

Touching, poking, and many other forms of bungholery also met with failure as my phantom manhood found no joy except rubbing myself while she slept or walked about her upstairs bedroom naked, but noncorporeal self-pleasuring attempts ultimately held no satisfaction. The hope of touching the maiden ended after weeks of futile attempts, bringing occasional contemplations of God’s mission, which frustrated much since he could have just told me his will. Unable to divine His will or partake of the maiden’s bungholery motivated leaving. Exiting the tavern one afternoon, I stopped to say goodbye to the fair tavern girl, whispering in her ear, “You’re a dirty bitch. Fare-thee-well.”

Suddenly, the maiden tilted her head inquisitively. “Warty witch cast thee spell?”

Patrons of the tavern stared at the lass.

“You heard me!” I exclaimed.

“Burn thee?” she questioned, looking about the room.

Panic befell the town folk who dragged her into the street and delivered her to the local magistrate, who, hearing the townsmen’s testimony, ordered her death. Despite the sadness of the maiden's burning, I reveled in the newly discovered ability to communicate. As the girl screamed from the fiery stake, I walked away feeling confident that people would hear me again, and many possibilities of bungholery awaited.

Chapter 2. Shalom, Pardner!

Conversation attempts continued causing women to burn at the stake, and this frustration soon spurred relocation to France. Revered for their sluttery, the French brought a new promise of bungholery, despite horrible body odor. “If you want good wine and whoring, go to France! Just hold your nose.” So, the adage and my migration went.

At a harbor, a French boat waited to cross the English Channel, and entering the ship unnoticed in a ghostly state, I stowed away with some whores below deck and began pleasuring myself. Only underway a few hours, a commotion from the upper decks ceased self-pleasuring and brought me topside to witness a pirate ship nearing. Cannons erupted. Strikes rocked the boat, shearing the planks of the deck, and soon the craft sank, leaving me helpless to float or swim. Sunlight dimmed while falling to the seafloor in the murky water filled with bodies and wreckage. “Dammit!”

The directionless walk through the sea’s pitch on the channel's floor lasted a long, unknown time, stopping only to stroke my manhood and ventilate hostility in the darkness. “Damn thee, Lord, for trapping me betwixt the arse of the North Sea and the pisser of the Atlantic!”

Lost for many years, I walked and pleasured myself until a light glowed in the distance one day. Holstering my manhood to trudge faster, the water above receded until the brightness revealed a rocky beach. I stepped on the shore, assuming arrival in France, but the journey ended much further. Discovering Germany frustrated but elated knowing the legends of village-feeding, prodigiously breasted women, and men with tongues expert in bungholery. Yes, a wondrous culture, those Germans.

I arrived during the Golden Age of the Jew, called the Weimar Republic, and in those days, Jews roamed Europe’s plains in abundance. A playfully obstinate people skilled in many trades, great Jewish pioneers advanced the fields of jewelry making, banking, personal injury law, and chiropractic medicine. Fist-banging, jovial dinner table stories spoke of renowned Jewish explorers, warriors, and the great Jewish accountants who traveled to the East bearing the knowledge of tax shelters. There were tales of the Hasidic cowboy wrangling livestock, stopping only to tip his shtreimel and give you a hardy, “Shalom, pardner.” Sadly, this great age and history would come to a terrible end.

While lurking around a Jewish farm, trying to decipher two Jewish girls speaking Hebrew in the hopes of convincing them to strip naked, a commotion from the barn captured my attention. Leaving the girls to hang wash, I entered the nearby barn and found a strange, small, toothbrush-mustached man wrestling a donkey. The weird little man cursed and struggled to position the donkey, then dropped trousers and sweated while pounding the beast. “Scheiße! Scheiße! Scheiße!”

I fell to the earth laughing as the Jewish girls entered the barn to investigate and fell into hysterics. The weird little man reddened with embarrassment but caught in the moment’s pleasure, he could not break free of the donkey, causing me to yell, “Keep doin’ her!”

The odd little man cocked an ear. “Juden?”

Realizing I gained his attention, I shook my head. “No, keep doin’ her, stupid!”

“Töte Juden!” He whipped his head about, searching aimlessly.

Realizing he couldn’t understand, I walked off laughing when he finished his bungholery and pulled up his lederhosen. The giggling girls raced past me, leaving the barn as the funny little man chased them, screaming, “Töte Juden!”

“What a strange little man.” I shook my head and began seeking new entertainment.

Chapter 3. All Whores Go to Heaven

Years of pleasuring myself to hot German women morphed into the mass destruction of Europe, motivating a hasty exit from Germany. Escape provided no relief from the violence as I traveled to Japan, where a fierce masturbation session with the emperor’s concubines caused the utterance of something the emperor misinterpreted, and bombs soon rained on Pearl Harbor. While stroking manhood in Korea, I somehow started a war, and similarly in Vietnam, making imperative the need to find English-speaking people, but this too proved a mistake.

Moaning while touching myself at the People’s Temple in LA made Jim Jones believe he was Jesus. In New York, while pleasuring myself with the chili cheese at a convenience store, the Islamic owners interpreted my grunting as “Jihad,” and somehow, this caused a bunch of morons to crash planes into buildings. Decades of death, despair, and futile masturbation spurred the decision to live in the desert, hoping the quiet desolation would allow pleasuring without misinterpretation.

While wandering the desert, I came upon a wide-open space of white sand where something shiny jutted from the dust. Kicking the sand away unearthed a massive set of solid gold keys gleaming the Mercedes symbol from the key ring. Working the giant keys free caused the sky to part above me, revealing Heaven, thundering God's voice, “Your task is complete.”

“What? What fucking task?”

“You have returned my car keys.”

Throwing hands to the air, I shook my head. “What the hell, God? Why didn’t you just tell me where you thought you lost them and send me to look for them? I’ve been wandering around for hundreds of years, not knowing what the fuck I’m supposed to do.”

God’s voice bellowed, “Long ago, in the time of Moses, I dropped my car keys in the desert. While this seems like a simple thing, simple things to humans are complex events for your God. You don’t understand the time’s complexity, how all the universe is a fabric of me, and how many routine actions often carry cosmic consequences. Once while eating tacos, I farted a black hole that swallowed a galaxy. Another time, I sneezed and wiped out a solar system. Then there was the time I had an angel in the back of the Benz, and getting a hummer caused an ice age.

Every action carries massive consequences, and that’s why I need you to carry out my will, but your stupidity causes many problems when I try to explain. Before you, I sent Moses to find my keys in the desert. He and his people wandered around for forty years because somehow, saying, “I chose you to find my keys,” translated into them being the chosen people. Whenever I tell people to do my bidding, they always take it the wrong way, like the time I told that idiot Marx to be less stingy, and he thought the world needed Communism. If I said, "find my keys in the desert," you surely would have taken that to mean something like the “keys to salvation” or “keys to my holy wisdom.”

“But God, all those people died,” I cried.

Laughter boomed from the sky, “They only died here; they're all in Heaven. I can’t very well kill any of you since I am the supreme, ultimate, and universal righteousness. Maybe those people died so that other people could live, or maybe, they died so the Eagles could win the Super Bowl. Time and reality's complexity is beyond your comprehension. All you need to understand is everyone is someone’s whore, and all of you happen to be mine. What does it all matter since all you whores go to Heaven anyway?”

“God?”

“Yes.”

“Are there gloryholes in Heaven?”

“They’re made of gold with Angels playing harps and singing to your pleasuring.”

“You are truly great, my Lord.”

Epilogue

Today, I rise into Heaven, having learned the great lesson: do not judge God’s will. Just be happy to be his eternal whore.

The End.