The Eighth Plague: A Narrative of Sex, Drugs, and Rock 'n' Roll

Chapter 8: I don't want to change.

Margie, Martie, and the Chinese exited the elevator, and walked into the clearly-labeled office of Elon Raffles, greeted by a bizarre scene. The Confederate was hanging for dear life at the edge of a trapdoor in the floor, meanwhile the childish and zombified Major Collins had begun to rip Raffles limb-from-limb, as Raffles in vain fired bullet after bullet after ineffective bullet with a pepperbox gripped firmly in his teeth.

Margie pulled up the stocky Confederate with one immensely strong hand, and the Chinese began to reprimand Major Collins.

Collins let Raffles alone, who was now totally without arms or legs. Crying, he dropped the gun from his mouth and began to bawl in complete anguish. "MOMM-EEEE! I WANT TO BE THE PHANTOM, MOMM-EEEE!"

Out of mercy, Martie stomped his head in with her boots. "Where the HELL are Spade and the Arab?"

Just at that moment, who should arrive, but Doris Daker, The Swede, and The Samoan. "We have found a secret tunnel, my friends!" the Swede shouted, "It goes all throughout the building! We were able to find the Dirigible room! Come, come!"

"Sure," the Confederate said, "but, ah, first we need to get Spade and the, um, the Arab. They're, uh, screwing in the utilities."

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Spade was now going at the Arab from behind, which both found to be diverting enough, when suddenly the door of the utliities closet opened wide, and who should be standing there but EVERYONE. Doris, Martie, Margie, Major Collins, The Confederate, The Chinese, The Samoan, The Swede all stared as Spade Newhouse did the Arab doggystyle. "The more the merrier," said the Arab.

Spade's eyes bulged in his skull, as he continued to ass-fuck the Arab. "No, there's no room. This is a confined space."

"Well, there's always the, ah... you know, the office room. That thingy. It's a relatively spacious, um, place for that." mumbled the Confederate.

And everyone agreed.

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If there is one thing the American reading public has learned from Stephen King, it is that a gangbang makes the ties between a group of friends all the stronger. This is false, and Stephen King and the American reading public are a bunch of idiots who can go and shove It where the sun don't Shine.

Luckily, our band of misfits were not friends, rather they were a loose assemblage of personages looking to get last kicks in on the eve of apocalyptic viral contagion. Or at least this was what motivated some of them. Others, however, may have had different and much more sinister motives.

That is not, to say, however, that their modest little orgy was without significant drawbacks. For example, there was all the blood in the room, along with the stench of deceased Mr. Raffles. That, and Margie had remembered that she had a backup player, and so throughout the entirety of the proceedings, the mood was torturously killed and its grave stomped upon by unarrousing hauntological numbers like Signal Blue and Stop Motion Happening, which, while by no means bad songs, did not match the occasion in the least.

Once done, the party marched out of the office, and began navigating the system of tunnels found by the group's larger members, during which time the tape machine played Demons Come in All Shapes and Sizes and Audio Control for Baby, songs which lent a spooky atmosphere to the spelunking which none found pleasant.

Finally, they had followed the burrowings into the dirigible room, where they picked the best one (ostensibly an ivory platform of cabins and railing held together by two pairs of wax-paper wings and what looked to be a giant peanut) and shot off into the azure skies.

Margie's player was playing Signal Blue, which everyone thought was a pretty damn sweet accompaniment. 

In context, that is. It's not a great song.