Sand Snakes

What do you know about sand snakes?

About those that plow the scorching sea of the Azarh desert. About those that, under the onslaught of burning sand, lose chunks of rotten flesh and howl like coyotes that have swallowed castor oil. About those that seek out their prey with an excitement you wouldn't even attribute to a tribal hunter during the Great Hunt.

Thrilling legends are told about sand snakes, for these creatures are terrible and unshakable. They are black like mighty negroes, immense like the trunks of ancient baobabs, they have no skin, like on sphinx cats, their dark blue cocks, resembling the bloodied maw of a predator, are drenched in thick blood. The swollen gray veins at the

base of the shaft disgustingly bulge outward. Such is their appearance. African boys do not like to walk on the sand in the dark, for sand snakes are always somewhere nearby and in their sinful core a single desire has frozen — to fuck.

What do you know about danger?

At any moment, a predator that has crept up can wrap its long member around your leg and drag you to the bottom of the ocean whose name is Azarh. And what happens next, you of course know — the snake that dragged you will call its acquaintances with an inner cry and together they will fuck you for not one torturous hour. It will hurt, hurt a lot. And be tight. And stuffy. And hot.

The creatures will drag you away just as they dragged hundreds of children before, fuck you just as they fucked them, with their heads they will devour your juicy flesh, as they devoured the skinny bodies of little negroes. You will wheeze, sneeze sand, vomit gastric juices, but to your happiness, this is not now and not even today.

As long as you are needed by the tribe and the sensitive little negro children as the "snake-catching master," your existence will have at least some value. As soon as you become unnecessary — bid farewell to life. They don't like Europeans here.

What do you know about yourself?

Only that in the past you are an honorable European, pursued by the special services of North Korea, and in the present, the "snake-catching master" pursued by the nauseating spawn of the Earth's depths. Catching horrible penis-like animals — that is your dirty, but partly salvific work. For weeks, wandering the desert, you fumigate the dry night air with incense and wait for the next creature to poke its head to the surface. And let it just poke out — bang! bang! and it's the end. When you, not without the help of bison, drag the still-living creature to the settlement, the local entertainment show will begin. Execution.

Snakes are usually publicly burned or impaled on stakes by their cocks, and then their stinking remains are given to the Ishkams — desert pigs with a dark green skin tone. Snakes deserve precisely such a cruel-disgusting execution.

These creatures also threw out the half-eaten corpses of children from the depths of the desert, giving the tender flesh to vultures; so the tribe remained even and took revenge through demonstrative executions. On one hand, you approved of the natives' vengeful moods, although on the other… no, it doesn't matter what you had on the other. It's worth maintaining one cold-blooded opinion that does not diverge from the chief's opinion. It's worth burying yourself within, hiding from your stubborn "self" — running headlong from the anti-tribal and scorching like the midday sun opinion. They don't stand on ceremony with two-faced people here.

What do you know about the past?

By the faded epaulettes and tarnished medals, it's clear that this fallen one was once a valiant paratrooper — now his appearance is pitiful; empty eye sockets, a pale face that has taken on a mask of fright, a wide-open mouth filled with wet sand, deep cuts showing through the greenish-gray military uniform and an arm torn off by a treacherous bomb. His body was not buried in a ceremonial coffin, covered with the state flag. He was thrown here.

Now the paratrooper's body reeks of oil, licked by the sea tongue and shat on by seagulls. Forgotten samurai of new centuries adorn the shore of the eternal haven. The severity of noisy discos, the riffraff of palace balls in English backwaters. Mountains of cooled corpses, tons of spilled chemicals, a sea of brains flattened in the sand and only one protesting cry… That's you screaming. The last survivor, but not yet having lost faith in the Hotel.

They are waiting for you there, they love you there, but you have to spit in the face of blind pain and deaf confessions, put a cross on the past. And you, deafened by the explosions of cluster bombs and blinded by the bright flashes of flare guns, run… The gray cloudless sky showers you with wonderful snow, which leaves painful ulcers on the skin. Nuclear winter reigns outside, and you, trying not to step into the snowdrifts, green on the sand, run without looking back. From the coast. From your native Korea. Forever!

What do you know about the chief?

Once every three days you sniff a white powder. The chief calls it Hibom — the food of the Higher Ones. In Korea, they would call it a drug, but you reject this stupid name. Hibom is Hibom, the food of the Higher Ones is the food of the Higher Ones… You believe the chief, always believed. He is the chief, he is the father. He cannot be disobeyed, otherwise death. Yes, he is stern, yes, he is cruel, but he is first and foremost wise, and his wisdom is a head above your worthless life. Even if the chief calls the tribe to fall into the abyss of sodomy, you will remain faithful and take the first step. But for now, that is not the case, for now you only sniff Hibom, look at the setting disk of the pale sun, thinking about your painfully heavy fate.

A tender gaze caresses, makes you clench inside, nervously cringe from the constant gusts of the cursed "second opinion." Even in the wild Azarh, love lives. Perhaps it's an illusion, but you wholeheartedly believe that at least something human remains here. Faith is an important factor because it is what pulls you out of the deep pit into which you are falling deeper and deeper. No faith — no incentives. No incentives — no strength. No strength — no reason to exist. The "great minds" of Korea also had no faith, and what came of it? Nuclear winter. There is no more Korea, no more Asia — half the continent is now like a huge grave. The way back is irrevocably closed, and ahead only the dry winds of Africa.

Once, having inhaled a lethal dose of Hibom, you talked to them. There are three winds: the younger Iksham, the middle Tasskat, and the elder Azarh. All three appeared before you in the form of bearded elders in cassocks. It was they who revealed to you all the trump cards of the Korean politicians and all the tricks of your harsh chief. It must be noted that the politicians turned out to be somewhat similar to the chief. Same fathers, same communist system, same tyranny. And Tasskat also predicted the future of the planet for you; it is terrible and unsystematic, perhaps so much so that the years of the past war in comparison seem like just a trivial "warm-up." It's like nuclear winter after disbelief or like inhuman cruelty after a tender gaze…

… The evening coolness blew. In this short transitional moment, you sit on a large yellow stone and silently look into the distance. Now is the best moment — the transition from unbearable daytime heat to unbearable nighttime cold.

Next to you is a young, shapely negro girl. She respects you, you are her hero.

 — Is it true that the world lost parallels two moons ago? — she asks, smiling sadly.

You nod.

 — You must feel bad… — the girl sighs. — They are pursuing you, right?

 — Right, — you answer without turning. — The sooner we start, the sooner we finish. Undress before it gets cold.

 — So it's true, that you have to take me?

You turn and nod again.

 — It's inevitable. Have to.

The tattered rag covering the crotch flies off, and you expose your dry and yellowed-from-years-in-the-desert cock to the negro girl. A couple of careless tugs with your hand make it fill with blood and stand like a long pike. You won't find many that long — 19 centimeters after all.

The girl, meanwhile, did not want to undress, still harboring foolish hopes.

 — Maybe you can catch the snake without this? We can manage with light arousal or… maybe there is another way?

 — What way? — you inquire. — Suggest one.

The negro girl shrugged.

 — I don't even know… you're better at these things. There must be a way out!

 — But in this case, there is no way out, — you answer dryly and, approaching the girl closely, push her front-first onto the sand not yet cooled from the evening chill, after which you begin to carelessly tear off the rags she is wearing.

A jerk and the cheetah skin, playing the role of a bra, flies aside, revealing a view of black rounded breasts. A jerk and the bison wool wrap slides down to the knees. Before you stand firm black buttocks and, protruding slightly below, a half-opened vagina.

 — Wait, hold on! Don't! — the girl cries.

Paying no attention to her cries, you confidently spread her kicking legs and begin to enter her tense womb. The dark labia part under the pressure of the cock, like the bud of a beautiful lotus. She moans, screams, resists, but your penis is relentless. It thrusts hard inside, then sharply pulls out. The hymen tears easily, and the pace gradually picks up.

The negro girl is already losing the strength to resist, and you, like the last son of a bitch, continue to fuck her non-stop. Sweat streams down your rough body, sharply stinging old wounds.

 — That's it, baby, — you say smiling. — Endure a little more.

Firmly grabbing the girl by the shoulders, you lift her slightly and press down hard, squeezing her rear into the sand. The buttocks spread, and her anus touches the sandy sea. Sharp, annoying grains of sand rub it until it bleeds. The snake is still not here, so you begin to seriously worry. Time to proceed to plan "b" — to fuck her in the ass, which, let it be said, contradicts some tribal laws.

Your hands fumble, convulsively slide over the body, rubbing against fresh sweat. Soon your right hand, shiny from moisture, penetrates the "sandy" ass of the negro girl and begins to rub it with a kind of "lubricant" for easier further penetration. She cries, her body is covered with goosebumps, her lips, stuck with grains of sand, tremble. She doesn't want to be fucked in the ass, but you understand your responsibility to the natives and, bending the girl doggy-style, immediately get down to business.

The sweaty penis, rubbed by sand grains, slowly enters the bloodied girl's ass. You both scream from the surges of all-consuming pain. The thin flesh on your frenulum tears, your cockhead is flooded with tickling red streams. The member pushing into the rectum gets coated in blood, as if in lubricant, and begins to go even deeper, even more intensely. The thick blood from her torn ass and your wounded penis merge into one and fall onto the sand in scarlet droplets. You breathe heavily and fuck the negro girl as hard and painfully as possible.

A long-awaited howl is heard. A nearby dune scatters into dust, and from the depths of the desert, a huge head of a calloused cock emerges. The familiar smell of rotten flesh, somewhat similar to the smell of rotten eggs, hits your nostrils. At this moment, you pull your reproductive organ, which smells no better than the snake's head, out of the girl's ass and begin to masturbate. Streams of sticky semen pour onto the trembling girl's body, soiled in dried blood. Her once-virgin dark crevices have now forever lost their innocence.

She vomits. She has completed her honorable task.

You smile and, grabbing the saber lying near the site of copulation, rush at the snake. The saber cuts the head in half, entering the enemy's cockhead up to the hilt. An immense pillar of blood soars into the sky. The creature turned out to be old, so it's all simpler than you thought. The chief will be pleased, his mission accomplished. A bloody rain pours from the sky.

Sighing with relief, you fall down exhausted next to the raped girl. Now it's all behind. On your tombstone they will solemnly write:

"He was loyal to the Old World!"

On hers:

"She gave her honor for the Old World!"

You are satisfied with this. This is your most cherished dream, an answer to the call of the homeland…

… the windy daydreams of sleepy consciousness are cut off by a roar. On the distant red line of the fading horizon, shadows barely distinguishable among the dark dunes appear. With each second, there are more of them. These are the tanks of the Asians. The tanks of your native North Korea. It is, after all, boundless honor — to know that soon the soldiers will find two naked corpses, no, even three! There will also be the bloodied head of a snake, cut in half, and lots and lots of fear frozen in time. The soldiers will jump out of their iron machines, a screech cutting the ears will scatter across the desert, and one thought will freeze in their heads:

Fuck, fuck, fuck!!!..

But do not seek light in this call. It is not here. In the Azarh desert, it is always dark; in vain, year after year, you searched for warming rays in the cold desert vacuum and in vain you ran under the song of machine guns from that deadly snow… Yes, you killed the last desert snake, but understand, their spirit is not killed.

For there is no light in this desert.

For there is no tribe in this desert.

Here there are only snakes and the military.

And also — the cherished grams of Hibom.

Jonathan Davis.