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Special thanks the beta reader who fixed this story to Eunuch Archive requirements. Kakos Odegos came out of Rite Aid right fast and furiously cracked open the warm six-pack of Old Milwaukee. He chugged two while opening the six vials of pharmaceuticals prescribed for his worsening chronic attacks of Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia. He washed it all down with the last four. All this happened as he sat on the curb in the parking lot, unable to walk without shaking, unable to hold his car keys, unable to even focus on his fucking Ford Focus. Within 30 minutes, however, he was again lucid and physically stable. Mentally, he was as whacked out as ever, but his constant chatting with an invisible Lucifer seemed normal to him. Kakos did not yet know that he was one of seven simultaneous scenes at Rite Aids throughout the Bay area. The pre-drug shakes of all seven combined to hit about six by Richters tally. A precursor. Lucifer could multi-task and all seven followed his telepathic psychotic instructions. It was a long drive over Donner Pass and then down into the Nevada desert outside Reno. It looked like they were entering the hideout country of the likes of Manson. Kakos wished he had bought a case instead of the six pack. It was hot on the highway. It was lonely on the long road. It was the end of time and it was the beginning of time. By sundown, all seven had pulled into the sage covered entrance to the ruins of the old Mustang Ranch a place where hookers hooked back in the 80s but where no one had been for years now. The seven house trailers were still there, arranged spoke-like, with an end of each against a hub in the middle. Even the 10-foot wrought iron fence was still there, creaking in the dry desert wind as darkness fell upon it, the rusty torches long extinguished but still leading the way. Without even dusting off the decades of grime, the seven pulled up rickety bar stools after they entered that hub. Ghosts of madams seemed all around as the seven sat at the old bar and peered to the front door where hefty and well-hooted hookers used to come running from the seven trailers and line up to meet and greet, giving smiles with their eyes and lips and telekinetic clits, making one and all believe that they had finally found the long lost loves of their lives. No one spoke. Lucifer kept talking to them, of course, but he does not count, except to just one number. That number was about the number of cocks sucked per day at the old ranch. The going rate back then was only about $75 for a mouth job, a little more for a hand job strangely, a whole lot more for a cunt or ass job, and everything you got or ever will have if you did as the old dusty sign said and ask about our orgy room. The Shinings bar tender appeared, with a 12-inch hard-on pouring out of his pants. He poured out seven shots of Seven, then topped them off with seven shots of jerked cum. The Krakos Seven drank them down, threw the glasses back over their left shoulders, throwing a $20 each down for a tip. The apparition tending laughed; he said the tips would be taken in the back. He was right. When they came to in the morning, each was laying naked on one of the old mattresses. What a hangover from just one shot, each thought. What a pain between their legs, each felt. The hookers used to use rubbers. Those doing the work last night used rubber bands, castration bands. Not around their balls, though, but around their cock heads. Each of the seven tips were gone, replaced with a stub of a catheter tube right where the bands pinched their shortened cock shafts into torpedo points. It was the loud diesel of a mammoth tour bus pulling up to the iron gate that got each of the seven to stumble out of bed and back to the hub. There they lined up like the hookers of days past, waiting. Waiting nude with dripping anticipation, and blood-dripping cock stubs, to see if the long lost loves of their lives would be coming in through the decaying ornateness of the old front door. To be continued with Bad Cock Rising.
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