Attack of the Gay Rape Monkeys

Chapter 1

 Michael didn't have much time. Soon, the gay rape monkeys would be back. He had to get what he could of what remained of his old life. What had been here before the attack.

He hadn't been in his house for months. Could he even call it his house anymore? It almost seemed like it belonged to the gay rape monkeys now - their stench, their feces, and their semen covered everything. Yet beneath all that, the ghosts of Michael's past still remained. Seemingly untouched by time, although they had certainly been touched by gay rape monkey feces and semen many, many times.

Walking into his old bedroom, he was reminded of the simple pleasures of life before the gay rape monkey attack. For the past two months he'd been sleeping in a cave off of Fuckbuddy Shore with a few other survivors. They'd set up a town there, or at least as close a simulation of a town as they could get these days. It was nice, but nothing beat being back in the real thing, even with the ever-looming threat of the gay rape monkeys coming back before schedule.

Catching himself in this odd exposition of things he already knew, he realized that he didn't have much time to waste, and vowed to stop doing that. Betty had always berated him when he got like this, thinking he didn't care. But he did. He cared too much. He had constantly found himself being lost in her brown eyes; they were the color of a perfect, smooth turd.

Recently he had been having trouble pooping. All the turds he could manage were measly little pellets, barely larger than a quarter. Bill had said that it was because of the grief and fear, but Bill also said that he once went back in time to kill Hitler, so what does he know? That dude was fucking crazy. Michael had caught him kissing the barrel of a shotgun once. Like, Bill was straight-up tonguing that gun. He even had his fingers tickling the trigger like he was fingering a vageener. That's the crazy kinda shit that Bill likes, pretending a gun is a lady and the trigger is a vageener.

"It's been so long since I've ever seen a vageener," Michael thought. "I saw one once right after the attacks - Mrs. Pooopbaals, our elderly neighbor, had seemingly been caught in the first wave of the attack. I saw her dragging herself around without legs, totally naked. She was groaning in pain, begging me to help, but I totally saw her vageener. That was cool."

As he was reminiscing about the past, Michael had drowned out the noises around him. However, he could now hear that unmistakable, sex-obsessed screaming and stampeding growing ever closer. The gay rape monkeys, previously out fishing for more victims, were now returning to town. He knew he didn't have time to escape; the gay rape monkeys who had been living in his house for the last three months would be back within minutes.

Almost instinctively, he rushed to hide himself in the closet, an apt metaphor for his time in this house before the attack. But this was no time for metaphors about Michael secretly being gay, this was time to think up a plan of attack. And, feeling the immense weight on his shoulders from the very likely scenario of him being raped and murdered by gay rape monkeys, Michael did the only logical thing and shit himself. For the first time since the attack, he fully let loose. A jet-black sludge began to seep out of his jeans, sliding down the back of his pants and onto the floor. It jiggled with the bounciness of gelatin.

This unforeseen event, however, brought forth an extraordinary finding: he couldn't smell this disgusting, foul, rancid, deplorable goop that had oozed out of his anus. Not a whiff. Michael thought to himself, "Wait a minute. I can't smell this because the house is already covered in gay rape monkey shit. This awful demon poo that I have birthed from my bowels might just save my life!"

And so, in the hopes of camouflaging himself even further, Michael took out his belt, dropped his pants and underpants to the floor, and began furiously masturbating. He thought of his wife, Betty - but no, that wouldn't work, though he wouldn't admit the reason why. Then his attention turned to poor, old Mrs. Pooopbaals. Oh, yes, this was the ticket to Flavortown that he was looking for. Her gross oldness disguised her femininity, allowing himself to fully immerse himself in the fantasy, disregarding silly things like sexuality or figuring out who he really is. That can wait until the end of the novel.

Instead, he focused on the minutia that made Mrs. Pooopbaals so appealing to him. Like how her husband died - he fondly remembered the funeral, it was a lovely event. Or like how, when she went on a Vegas road trip weekend with her old college roommate Martha, she had entrusted Michael to water her plants, and he had snuck into her bedroom to sniff her panties. But the Great Shark Attack, as Michael's middle school sex-ed teacher Mr. Bootholey had once oddly referred to it, only commenced when he remembered Mrs. Pooopbaals' near-lifeless, legless form scrounging around on the sidewalk. As he thought of spoiling her decrepit vagina as the gay rape monkeys were so fond of doing, the floodgates suddenly opened.

As dozens of gay rape monkeys invaded the house through the front door downstairs, violently gay-raping each other as they were known to do, a geyser of pure ejaculate erupted out of Michael, specifically out of his penis, covering himself, his vile black butt vomit, and the walls of the closet.

This was the moment of truth. Though Michael had formulated this camouflage plan, he still wasn't sure whether it would work. Yet, as the gay rape monkeys infested the upstairs, it seemed they had not noticed him. The plan was a success! But still there was more to do.

Now Michael had to get out.