The Fyshwick Porn Flood

Waiting to score to some chemical slop outside the Pleasure Palace. The second biggest porno and brothel boutique in the Southern Hemisphere. Walk up and breath against the obscured number plates. Everywhere there’s dropped heads hidden behind sunglasses. Crushed cigarette corpses. Brown paper packages shoved under jackets. Red neon eating up the hot night. Inside she walks up with a post stoned swing in her hips. Drooling, with smeared lipstick. Mushed up mascara and makeup covering pin punctures. Her mouth sounds offers of fluids and holes and I pull my worn clean wallet out. But it’s as hungry as her. She leaves. Gotta get change, and disappear into the sticky white wank booth.

Then, the sound comes…

BROOM!

The rushing of water and plastic.
Doors explode.

I run from the toss chamber and witness…

A column of rubber cocks shooting into the sky.
A rainbow of lube and glass exploding from upstairs.
A corpse with a fake moustache floats past
Broken bones scented with pre semen joy.
Couples dead and drowned in hermaphrodite gear. Smashed and slaughtered on Shemale stuff.
A man has a super bunny dildo drummed through his temples and his gut reaction is to cough up bloody water. Another died in the teen section. Pigtail pics plaster his eyes and he ingests a gut full of innocent fuck vids. A man who ironically was not gay has had a shelf load of Big Load and I Love Cum videos splintered throughout his shoulder. Blood pisses from the nose and lips of a middle aged woman holding a maids costume. It’s strings tied round her throat. Dads drowned in golden shower movies. Mums mauled by pornos with storylines.
Then there is silence.

Outside,
A busload of Christian charity workers run over a Big John blow up doll and subsequently pull up to assist. They quickly disperse. Help us! This man is dying! But they run past vulnerable victims. Past the dying men. The choking shop clerks. And start scooping up the unruined remains of a boxload of Midget Bangbang number twelve DVDs. They shove twenty six inch dildos into their pockets. Then they run back to the bus. The engine ssplut splut splutters over. And they leave.

Inside,
The last screams are sucked into an insidious digital sludge.

Finally, an hour later, giggling emergency workers drag out the dead, but not before they pull out mobile phones and take photos for their social networking page.

I never get to finish up.

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