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Message-ID: <40767asstr$1044738602@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: eidelon262@aol.com (Eidelon262)
Subject: {ASSM} Nasrudin! The Mystical whatever. Chapter Two.
Date: Sat,  8 Feb 2003 16:10:02 -0500
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Nasrudin! The Mystical Prophetical Fellow Traveler!

by Eidelon262

The same legal disclaimers apply here, and the only change to the animal
cruelty disclaimer is: I fried a cat for breakfast this morning. I regret is
trying to shave it BEFORE it was dead. Fucker slashed me right up. Tasty legs,
though. But let this be a word of wisdom to you kids out there.

Legs ... huh, reminds me of something.

Nasrudin was spewing blood like an Egyptian oil tanker last time we saw him,
about to have a spinal tap done from the wrong end by the tender young daughter
of the bar owner who had just given him 15 free beers. "There is a fine line
between between sotted congeniality," Nasrudin reflected, "and alcoholic
wet-brain syndrome."

So Nasrudin rolled over.

The short sword missed his asshole and stuck in the dirt floor. Then he took a
bit of spit from the tip of his tongue and wiped the blood from his sucking
chest wound, which was not as bad as he made it out to be in Chapter One. Just
a scratch, really. Okay, it's a cheap out for a mortal wound, but at least the
girl <whose name Nasrudin could't quite remember, because with the bartender
dead he had other things on his mind> was impressed.

"Wow," she said.

"Yeah. Where does your dad keep the ice?" Nasrudin asked, attempting a martini.
Then, thinking of the girl's grief, he rephrased his question. "Where did your
dead dad keep the ice? Back when he was still alive? A couple of minutes ago?"

Arikash wept bitter tears. She was fortunate to have such a mystical
prophet-type on as a character in her story. Nasrudin put one arm around her
shoulder and started playing Clam Digger From Maine with the fingers of his
other hand. "Grief gives way to release," he said.

Ari's cash was splayed on two of Nasrudin's mystical fingers, which
prophetically told the old sod that she was still a virgin. Odd for a girl of
14, and odder still for a girl of 16, which she apparantly was. And Nasrudin
was greatly fond of otters. His mystical lingam inclined toward her seafood
beach.

Entry took no time at all. Nasrudin popped her like a can of cheap malt liquor.
She screamed like a butchered pig <which, actually, don't scream, or even
squeal, being dead and all.> There were tears and blood covering Nasrudin's
"Mystical Six Inches".

The girl wasn't too happy either.

"Please!" she cried. "No more! No! Don't! Stop! More! Don't stop!"

"Yeah baby, I'm nailing you like drywall in a Miami condo," said Nasrudin.

They both paused to ponder that rather strange statement.

Then Nas went back at it, filling her up with the cock she now lived for. He
thought she was okay, but he'd had better.

And here's a message for you kids out there: Guys say they want virgins, but we
lie. We like sluts. Sluts who look like virgins but have enough experience to
be really slutty. Real virgins are a pain in the ass <depending on how you do
it>. So on behalf of AmeriCorps, be a slut. A grateful nation gives its thanks.
And now, back to our story.

Arikash was flicking her tongue across Nasrudin's balls when he sent a stream
of mystical (and highly prophetic) goo all over her face. Ari thought she would
drown in the warmth of it ... she was a cuntal virgin, but she'd been blowing
her dad for years, so this was old territory.

Nasrudin had once again found Allah on the face of a child.

Both were so blinded by the experience (actually, Arikash could no longer open
her eyes) that they didn't notice the flash bulbs from the Geshtapah cameras.
Once Nasrudin came out of his orgasmic trance, he asked: "Hey!"

And then the Geshtapah officers slapped on the cuffs and dragged him away from
the wretched scene of carnage. They said things like "You're coming with us"
and "Resistance is futile" Nasrudin lapsed into another one of his prophetic
dreams, in which he watched all the episodes of Doctor Who with Tom Baker on
PBS while eating Doritos on a futon in Madison, Wisconsin in 1984.

***

Okay, I promised sex in the first chapter and didn't deliver; this time I
promised travel, and that was comprised of six inches. I'm giving up journalism
... the truth just isn't in me.

Watch out for "Chapter Three! Nasrudin Fucks Hogs!", which will probably be a
feature piece about Canadian water skiing.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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