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The Big Stupid Review


American Dream Serialization (Early Chapters)
Introduction to Jim Chaffee's Studies in Mathematical Pornography by Maurice Stoker
Introduction to Jim Chaffee's Studies in Mathematical Pornography by Tom Bradley
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: American Dream Title Page by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 1 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 2 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 3 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 4 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 5 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 6 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 7 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 8 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 9 by Jim Chaffee
Modern Tragedy, or Parodies of Ourselves by Robert Castle
Totally Enchanté, Dahling by Thor Garcia
Hastini by Rudy Ravindra
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 5 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
Unexpected Pastures by Kim Farleigh
Nonviolence by Jim Courter
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 4 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
The Poet Laureate of Greenville by Al Po
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part VI by Thor Garcia
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 3 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part V by Thor Garcia
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part IV by Thor Garcia
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 2 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part I by Thor Garcia
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part II by Thor Garcia
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part III by Thor Garcia
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 1 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
DADDY KNOWS WORST: Clown Cowers as Father Flounders! by Thor Garcia
RESURRECTON: Excerpt from Breakfast at Midnight by Louis Armand
Review of The Volcker Virus (Donald Strauss) by Kane X Faucher: Excerpt from the forthcoming Infinite Grey by Kane X Faucher
Little Red Light by Suvi Mahonen and Luke Waldrip
TEXECUTION: Klown Konfab as Killer Kroaked! by Thor Garcia
Miranda's Poop by Jimmy Grist
Paul Fabulan by Kane X Faucher: Excerpt from the forthcoming Infinite Grey by Kane X Faucher
Operation Scumbag by Thor Garcia
Take-Out Dick by Holly Day
Patience by Ward Webb
The Moon Hides Behind a Cloud by Barrie Darke
The Golden Limo of Slipback City by Ken Valenti
Chapter from The Infinite Atrocity by Kane X. Faucher
Support the Troops By Giving Them Posthumous Boners by Tom Bradley
When Good Pistols Do Bad Things by Kurt Mueller
Corporate Strategies by Bruce Douglas Reeves
The Dead Sea by Kim Farleigh
The Perfect Knot by Ernest Alanki
Girlish by Bob Bartholomew
The Little Ganges by Joshua Willey
The Invisible World: René Magritte by Nick Bertelson
Honk for Jesus by Mitchell Waldman
Red's Dead by Eli Richardson
The Memphis Showdown by Gabriel Ricard
Someday Man by John Grochalski
I Was a Teenage Rent-a-Frankenstein by Tom Bradley
Only Love Can Break Your Heart by Fred Bubbers
Believe in These Men by Adam Greenfield
The Magnus Effect by Robert Edward Sullivan
Performance Piece by Jim Chaffee
Injustice for All by D. E. Fredd
The Polysyllogistic Curse by Gary J. Shipley
How It's Done by Anjoli Roy
Ghost Dance by Connor Caddigan
Two in a Van by Pavlo Kravchenko
Uncreated Creatures by Connor Caddigan
Invisible by Anjoli Roy
One of Us by Sonia Ramos Rossi
Storyteller by Alan McCormick
Idolatry by Robert Smith
P H I L E M A T O P H I L I A by Traci Chee
They Do! by Al Po
Full TEX Archive
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The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part III

By Thor Garcia

In which our heroine is disrobed and probed, gives birth and rents her body to strangers.


Cleo awoke, sweating and confused. Where was she? She had been taken to the poor person’s hospital – otherwise known as the Sacred Sepulcher of the Unforgettable Foreskin, sponsored by Chip Caravan, The World's Favorite Chip!™

Dead bodies, in varying states of decomposition, were piled nine feet high against the walls on both sides of her. But Cleo did not mind, because at least it was warm.

The troupe of student doctors, led by the Reverend Dr. Pezold Pffyl-Ploid Pieter Pffyl Pleen, entered to evaluate the patients. They had been told in advance that the unidentified blond was a special case, for multiple reasons. The crowd of doctors huddled around Cleo.

"Please disrobeth and spreadeth your legs, my dear," said the Reverend Dr. Pleen, who had a huge and heavily veined red nose from his years of drinking and homosexuality, which had formally ended for the fourteenth time last Thursday.

"Disrobeth?" asked Cleo.

"Yes, my dear," the Reverend Dr. Pleen responded firmly. "And spreadeth of your legseth, my sweet. An accurate diagnosis ith most crucial at this stage. It ith of the utmosteth urgency, my dovish darling."

Cleo slipped of out the canvas sack.

"Now then, we shall begin with the questionnaire," said Reverend Dr. Pleen. "Are you or have you ever been married? Do you haveth a boyfriend? Are you simultaneously married while havingeth extra additional sexual relations on the side with a male member?"

"N-n-n-n-n-n-no!" said Cleo. "Relations? Never!"

"Very well. Are you bisexual, my dear? By that I meaneth, have you ever positioned your tongue between another female’s legs, child or adulteth? Clarity is of utmost importance here, my deareth. Do not holdeth backeth. We muth attain every detail for an accurate prescription."


"Do you or have you ever engaged in anal intercourseth, my lovely? With males or females, child, teenager or adult? Your answer ith most crucialeth, my dear. Without a complete and honesteth reply, we will be unable to determineth an adequate course of healingeth…"


"I see," said the Reverend Dr. Pleen. He turned to his students. "An anal inspection will be necessary, unfortunatelyeth. Please marketh on your chartseth, gentlemen."


"My dear missy - attentioneth, please!" said the Reverend Dr. Pleen. "Sinceth when did you acquireth your degree in forensic proctology? I possetheth sucheth a degree, and I am asking the questions here. Next question: My dear, do you or have you ever hadeth difficulty reachingeth orgasm? With females or males, child, teenagereth or adult?"


"I see," said the Reverend Dr. Pleen. "Endeth of questionnaire. Gentlemen, please warmeth the speculum."

The Reverend Dr. Pleen proceeded to lead the student doctors through the procedure known as a lung inspection. Such was the technology of the time that it was necessary to check for breast lumps.

"Breathe deeplyeth, my love," said the doctor, cradling Cleo's breasts in his thick, rough hands. "I see, yes. There areth some lingering questions here. Because of your state of distresseth, I am unableth to achieve an accurate diagnosis. We will have to attempteth again, perhaps in an hour, after you have calmedeth."

Next was the gynecological exam.

"Such is requiredeth by law of all young blond virginseth," said the Reverend Dr. Pleen. The other doctors murmured in agreement. "Breast cancereth is a very grave maladyeth, my lady. As is uterine and urinary dysfunctioneth. We must constantly be on guard for the manipulations and lies of Sataneth, who may appear in many forms. Satan is the Kingeth of Deceiverseth."

"S-s-s-s-satan! But - "

"Shh, my dear. And we will of course require a urine sampleth," said the Reverend Dr. Pleen to his associates. "Please acquire it now and taketh it at once to the tastingeth - pardon, testingeth - laboratory in my office."

After the exam was concluded, the Reverend Dr. Pffyl Pleen announced: "The darling lass ith indeed four months and nine days pregnant. The baby will be seized from her upon birtheth, and then she shall be casteth into the streetseth. Thus saith the Lordeth."

"P-p-p-pregnant?" wailed Cleo.

"Shhheth, my lovely," said the Reverend Dr. Pleen. "There ith a glory deep within you, of which you must become acquaintedeth. What is the souleth? It is the part of man that thinks, feels and hath hopeth. Your body, luscious, wet and fruitfuleth though it be, and though it multiplyeth - it will return only to dust, my sweet. Thus saith the Lord. It ith the soul that receiveth purification, not the body. The body will not enter the Kingdom of God - First Corinthians 15:50. The soul will be savedeth – Saint Mark 8:36. The nourishment of your soul dependeth on obedience to God and the path of righteousnesseth."

"But - "

"But not - oh, my harlot," said the Reverend Dr. Pleen, resuming his breast inspection. "The land hath committed a great harlotry by departingeth from the Lord. Scarlet woman, the Lord calleth you to cleanseth the abomination of the wickedness of your fornicationeth. With thine finery and jewelry, with thine painted face, thou misleadest the saints of God into sins of idolatry and sexual immorality. Oh, harlot mineth, cleanseth thou we must. Healing of soul and body in union. Thus saith the Lord."

"But - I - you - I don’t - "

"Shhh, my dear. Judgmenteth Day ith feared by the world, and that ith the glorious day that God will destroyeth the world because of the sineth of mankind. The Bibleth ith the Holy Booketh written by Holy God who ith the Creator of this beautiful worldeth. The ark that Noah builteth was the only place of safety from the destruction of the floodeth. Likewiseth, God’s gracious mercy shall be the only place of safety whenneth the destruction cometh on the Day of Judgmenteth. The Bible teacheth that even though God loveth this world, which He in His infinite wisdometh created, the law of God requires that those who sin must be punishedeth by death forevermoreth. God must also obey His law and therefore, since all the people of the worldeth are sinnerseth, He must destroyeth the worldeth."

"But - "

"Everyoneth has the right to be born - even you, my little whore-nymph, mine harlot mineth. But especially that tiny whore-nymph child which throbbeth within ye. Besides, you haveth no money for an abortioneth."

The throng of doctors withdrew from their briefcases a bevy of snakes and frogs. They held them above Cleo and began to chant.

"This ith Jesus’ babyeth, Jesus’ baby. Jesus’ baby eth. Jesus. Jesus. Jesuseth. Jesus’ baby. This baby belongseth to Jesus…"

The next day, the Reverend Dr. Pleen paid a private visit to follow up. In addition to being pregnant, Cleo had also come down with chronic bronchitis during her four months in the coma, during which she may have been impregnated by the Reverend Dr. Pleen or his associates. Or father may have been Sir Kermit Crabtree Longfellow McGree, Esquire, whose nose business was prospering thanks to Cleo’s redesigns, which Sir Mr. McGree had by now copyrighted in his own name.

"My deareth," said the Reverend Dr. Pleen, "there ith a shortage of medicines. Will you be ableth to payeth for them?"

"You know I have no money, Mr. Reverend Dr."

"Do you findeth me satisfactory?" inquired the Reverend Dr. Pleen.

"I-I-I-I-I-I," stammered Cleo, "I don’t understand."

"Please disrobeth, my child," said the Reverend Dr. Pleen. "I think we shall be ableth to determine a paymenteth plan. In installmentseth, as befitteth your situationeth - mercy of the Lordeth God. I shalleth make a depositeth and, hencethfortheth, you shall make an installmenteth. You mayeth make the first installmenteth this afternoon, and I shall make a depositeth of the same timeth. Iteth is of the most extreme urgencyeth. Time must not tarryeth. We willeth resume the breasteth and urinaryeth examinations at dawneth."

Cleo, swollen with child and not yet wishing to die, did as she was instructed. She had already begun to think of names for her child – Costner and Collette were immediate favorites, followed by Francesca, Felicity, Frank and Furman, along with Magnus, Marquette, Marcia, Micah and Meade.

All things considered, Cleo did appreciate life in the church - the food that was grudgingly provided, and the bells which rang to remind the doctors and priests to carry out their daily gynecological and breast research. Preventing breast cancer was a big concern within the church and, such a tender thing as she was, she did come to feel that they were doing their best to protect her.



A BLOND GIRL, 16, wanders out of a decrepit church. Thin and malnourished, she staggers down the avenue, wearing ash-grey sackcloth, as required by law. She has been raped and otherwise violated umpteen times in the past year. The church fathers earlier that day had seized her newborn child for the benefit of charity and the love of Christ.

At the corner, the BLOND GIRL observes a BOY being led into a steamy alleyway by a MAN. The man is Heanus Cillian Mandible Lambaugh Bork-Williams, an ambitious journalist for the Daily Standard Periodical-Register and KNBJ Television, "Your News Champ." In future years, the balding Bork-Williams will go on to be a rarely-acclaimed pundit, seen nearly daily on the nation’s television screens, though no one will remember what he has said or what he might stand for, other than the perpetuation of the status quo and to unsuccessfully promote sales of his books, which will bear titles such as FREELOADERS: The Inside Story of How Teachers, Nurses, Children, ‘Disabled People,’ Terrorists and the Liberal Media Are Causing Our Economic Collapse.


MAN: Yes, boy. And then when it’s my turn, you do me. And if you do as I ask, here’s two extra francs for your father. Now, take these drugs, like a good boy does…

BOY: Sure, mister.


MAN: O.K. Now you stand here, while I set down this towel and get on my knees. You must unzip, of course, or will I have to do that for you? You are really such a nice boy. Have some more drugs. Is this your first time?

BOY (grinning): No, I done it before, mister.

MAN: O.K., good. Here is my towel…


BLOND: Jeremy! What are you doing here! How dare you! This man is disgusting! You don’t have to do this!


MAN (helplessly): Whore! You, the blond one – whore! You mustn’t do such things! You have no such right! This is a free country! I will report you on the front pages of the daily newspapers and websites!


BOY: You witch, he was going to give me money!

BLOND: But Jeremy!

BOY: Oh, go to hell!




As a wounded bird flaps woundedly to its nest, so Cleo returned to the Blump family basement. It was a mere five-minute walk from where she had discovered her young street urchin brother, Jeremy, following the birth and instant theft of her infant son by the elders of the Sanctuary of the Unforgettable Forgettable Foreskin. Her son, who would never have a name, would be sold to pornographers later that day for 80 euro.

Times were tough. Oh, they were hard.

Cleo came down the stairs to find Father Bill and older sister Shamela both passed out on the concrete floor in various states of undress. Her three other brothers and sisters waddled around naked and crying, hitting one another with sharp rocks, which they clutched desperately in their small bleeding hands.

"Where have you been, lying whore!" screamed Mother Magda, who was already drunk off her morning six-pack of discount beer.

Mother Magda rushed toward Cleo, ready to clout her blondest daughter about the head and neck. But she was tripped up by a pile of bricks she had been peeling for that night’s supper. Mother Magda hit the ground and rolled to a stop at Cleo’s feet.

"Mother!" said Cleo.

Mother Magda began to sob. "Everyone’s been fired, Cleopatra. We have no money."

"Fired?" exclaimed Cleo. "For what?"

"Too much drinking and crack."

"Fired?" exclaimed Cleo. "They got fired from prison and the whorehouse? Is it possible?"

"Verily, Cleo," said Mother Magda. "The men of this world have their ways to enforce what they wish. Standards must be maintainedeth, even and especially in ye prisons and ye whorehouses. Me heard it in the brick line today – that one evaluateth the value of a society by how well they maintaineth their prisons and whorehouses. Standards must maintainedeth be. Broken-Whore Theory, they do indeed call it, according to the magazines."

Cleo gasped in horror at the sight of Shamela. Her sister seemed little more than a collection of brittle sticks, lashed together by tattoos. A pair of cherries had been inked in the center of her lower back, while various penises, testicle sacs, skulls, rats, snakes, dice and women with open legs had been stamped across her shoulders, back, neck and thighs. Many of the tattoos, Mother Magda explained, were artworks that men had imprinted upon Shamela after she had passed out of a midnight delirious and bleary.

"Oh, no," moaned Mother Magda, "and you’re father’s leg is again leaking. 'Tis the third time already today!"

Cleo saw the dark liquid pool beneath Father Bill. Her father appeared to have had his right leg amputated.

"Oh mommy, what happened to daddy?"

"Oh, dearie me," said Mother Magda. "When you were gone, your father was fired from the prison for being too drunk to dance. Incapable Of Dancing While Inebriated, they termed it in the legal document. He had no choice, sweetheart. So next we signed him up to carry a uranium radiation pellet in his calf as part of an Army weapons test. They said there would be no health effect. And it paid 45 yen, which should have lasted us for the next three years. But then they cut off his leg for further tests. They have promised to return the leg. But there was nothing we could do."

"What about the money?" said Cleo.

"They say it is a bank problem," said Mother Magda, "because we have no account."

"Oh, mommy!" wailed Cleo. "Mommy, mommy!"

"I knoweth, dear. But 'tis no time for tears. Stop your crying! Weef got a family to feed. Now go on and hustle into your sister’s gold and maroon satin dress over there. Just shake off the vomit, 'tis should be dried by now. 'Tis also a little left in her tin of petroleum jelly. Take that as well, my dear – 'tis worth more than gold and diamonds to us now. There’s plenty of men out there who want their money taken for a few seconds of rubbing. You just close your eyes, honey, and think of something nice and wonderful – like frosted jelly donuts and good cold beer. What can we do? We must eat. Yes?"


Cleo stood at the corner, her mother hidden in a shadowed alleyway a few yards away. A glassy-eyed man in long plaid shorts and a coonskin cap appeared. He gazed momentarily at Cleo and stuttered his step.

Cleo did not move nor look in his direction.

The man, curious, circled back. He stared at Cleo and slapped his thighs, nodded his head and grinned.

"Ooh shadooby, shadoo shadoo," he grunted. "Na na na na, hey hey hey – hello?"

Cleo did not move nor look in his direction.

By the time Mother Magda emerged from the alleyway and shoved Cleo in the back, the man had already moved on.

"Silly girl," said Mother Magda. "Get out there and do it, Cleo. We need meat!"

The mother-daughter team resumed their positions.

"Sucky suck-suck?" Cleo intimated to the next gentleman who approached.

"Why, what say ye?" said the gentleman. "Say, I do rather like the sound of that."

The gentleman was none other than the mental health professional Cuttledge Alcibiades Coverdale Nozick Graner VI, lately employed of the government-funded Tuskegee Institute for Child Safety & Welfare™, sponsored by Yippee Cola, the Refreshing Global Fizz®. Secretly, on the side, Graner was also vice-chairman of the Anti-Public Welfare Rationalist Anarchy & Benevolent Society, the well-funded and semi-secret organization which maintainedeth – and strenuously so – that the best course of action was to eliminate all forms of government and public education, thereby setting man upon man and tribe against tribe in an epic, never-ending struggle for wealth and the favors of women. This, the movement’s followers explained – once the spoils were divided among the wealthiest and most bloodthirsty clans – would lead to the establishment of a non-hierarchical and democratic perpetuation of individual happiness and gratification for all human beings who had survived.

"What’s your price, you little scum-whore," said Graner, who had acquired his multiple advanced degrees at a number of taxpayer-funded universities. "I’ve got half a forint."

"Okay, mister," said Cleo, following Graner into the bowels of the Alpha Hotel.

Mother Magda watched with pride as the hotel window lit up. Perhaps tonight there would be food after all! Real food!

Cleo and her client walked into the room. Graner immediately slapped Cleo across the face, tore down her dress and slapped her breasts. She fell to the bed, groaning.

"What’s your specialty?" demanded Graner, who hadn’t been screwed by his wife, Penumbra, for 27 months and had a nose the size and shape of a thimble. "Are you new at this? Is this your first time? If I wanted an inexperienced prepubescent girl I’d find one with my own two hands. From you I demand services rendered! This is the free market! Nuclear family! You cannot take from Tom and give to Jerry!"

"I-I-I-I-I," stammered Cleo.

"Answer me, ye! Aye, and you best not have diseases. Aye, your diseases are an unacceptable cost to my liberty and the inviolability of my individuality as an end unto itself. I do not want state intervention! I detest it! Open your legs, I want to see… Mmmm, yes. Pretty as a rose."

Graner removed his wizened member from his trousers. He shook it fancifully.

"Why, what have we here?" asked Graner. He paused in his exertions and leaned forward. "Your breasts. Why, they seem to be crying white juice. What is it?"

Cleo looked down. Her breasts were indeed weeping – a cloudy, milk-like material, intended for the child she would never hold. In her mind, she had imagined a girl named Robyn.

"Ahoy, mommy," squeaked Graner, falling on to the bed next to Cleo. "Aye, eliminating all forms of taxes and alleged so-called social welfare support demonstrates a maximum moral concern and respect for our fellow human – as individual individuals who possess their own individual sovereignty. Because one’s individual individuality is inviolable and sacred. China and India have yet to understand this formality, and thus shall we be victorious through our victorious superiority. Plus American private-sector investment and American bombs. And now it's feeding time."

Cleo limped back on to the street two hours later, drainedeth of breast and violated in all openings.

"I feel so filthy," said Cleo, handing her mother the half forint. "He said I didn’t know what to do."

"Hmmphf!" said Mother Magda. "We shall find another."

Cleo was back inside the Alpha Hotel within fifteen minutes. This time with a group of four men. Mother Magda watched with satisfaction as the light went on in the room.

Mother Magda scurried off. Using the two pence, she bought a hot dog at an all-night stand.

"Make the filthy filly open her mouth, eh?"

Cleo writhed in agony. Everything hurt. Even where it felt good, it hurt. The light was so bright. She saw everything.

"Open your mouth, ugly strumpet!"

The boot smacked the side of her. She felt a fist in her stomach.

"Wider, my dear. Much, much wider. Oi, I feel something 'round the size of a pineapple, just begging to debut. Oi, I've been holding it all day long. And I shall bring it, I shall, I shall, indeed I shall… Open up, missy."

"Ha ha! Aye, my good man - thinketh me she is willing!"

Cleo felt as if she was being torn in half. That wasn't the worst part. The smell was awful, beyond terrible.

The men had begun to relieve themselves. It was everywhere, everywhere. Cleo wished they would give her more from their pipe.

Cleo squirmed. She gagged. She vomited. She wished she could pass out. But it never happened. She was terribly wide awake.

"Hey, Blondie - tell the good man you won't do it again."

She said nothing. The slaps and smacks rained. To Cleo's face, breasts and buttocks.

"Tell him, little Blondie. I said tell him!"

"I won't do it again," said Cleo.

A slap. A punch.

"Say it again, me precious. Now!"

"Oi&hellip Where's me pineapple?"

"I won't do it again."


"I won't…do…"

"I reckon the lass done ate my pineapple. Reckon that!"

"Aye, she is willing. Open up, missy!"

Fresh blows pulverized Cleo. She felt herself beginning to black out.

"Say there, Ulysses - what's the difference between a blond and a mosquito?"

"Hold on, hold on, me pineapple… Uh, I don't rightly know at the moment."

"At least a mosquito will stop sucking after you hit it! Ha-ha!"

"Ha-ha, indeed! Awake now she is, I reckon… Look at the lassie go."

to be continued

This is an excerpt from the short story collection Only Fools Die of Heartbreak to be published by Equus Press later this year


© Thor Garcia 2013