[Attention!!--Intended for the eyes of ÜberWomen only! ]

A True Slack Confessions Exclusive Report by the Rev. Susie the Floozie, of the Holey DisOrder of St. Rhonda of Fast Living and No Consequences

I must begin by saying that I never thought I'd be writing to the STARK FIST. I consider myself a "nice" SubGenius girl -- no human sacrifice on the first date and all that -- but I'm just bursting to tell about something that happened to me the other night that sent me down the greased chute of concupiscent throbbing brain/sex torment faster than the winner in the Dobbssled competition at the 1998 Olympricks. In fact, just thinking about it gets my still-engorged sex-flaps so hot that I'm getting high off the fumes of the scorching melting Charles Eames Jetsons chair I'm sitting in right now. Reading the courageous testimony of my fellow Connie-rape victim, the formerly chaste Reverend Stang, has given me the courage to come forward. There is a six-lip-smacking succubus among us, claiming millions as her perverted minions in the most despicably, wetly, carnally evil cabal imaginable, and I am one of the multitude of victims. Yes -- I fucked Connie Dobbs! Or rather, Connie fucked the Hell out of me.

It wouldn't have happened if not for the perfect unintentional juxtaposition of a number of things randomly floating on the Luck Plane. In true SubGenius tradition, it was pure Blind Shithouse Luck that set in motion the cosmic collision that opened a heretofore-unviolated yawning chasm of Sin `n' SexHurt, and in true SubGenius tradition, violating pristine virgin ground isn't just a good idea -- it's the law. But such momentous events had deceptively inauspicious beginnings. All I had wanted to do was dye my hair.

Perhaps it was because of the oddly off-phase green-and-purple-paisley full moon that was hanging like an incandescent boil in the night sky. Maybe it was because I was in a state of raging hormonal flux ("on the rag" to you prong-units) and jiggling wildly to the Doktors for "Bob" tape wafting from my boombox and getting fucked up as Steven Hawking on Church-approved `Frop. What the hell, I don't know. But I am sure that 55-gallon acid-proof drum of "CONNIE'S `FLATTERING FRAUD' GeHenna HairGoo #O4Q2 Flames o' Hell Red" that I'd found a good deal on earlier that day at a more-disreputable-than-average Gypsy flea market had a lot to do with what ensued. I had just slathered on a coat of the vile-smelling but oh-so-effective concoction on my lush locks, being careful to avoid a particularly sensitive and hotly swollen zit on my forehead which had erupted out of nowhere that morning, and then kicked back with a pipeful of `Frappy and a copy of the FIST to beat off over (yes -- it's us SubGenius gals' favorite whacking material! That "Bob" is a real creamboat!). My NentalIfe was reflecting wistfully over my low Depravity Quotient lately and I was wishing there were a little more SexHurt to go around, when a stinging, blinding, searing pain caused my vision to blur. I dropped the FIST and ran to the bathroom, howling as the mephitic chemical cornucopia began to seep into my system. As I looked in the mirror gasping, I saw that the viscous clotted crud on my hair had apparently taken a few steps up the evolutionary scale since I'd last seen it in liquid form. It had formed an agglutinated ropy cocklike pseudopod like something out of a Frank Henenlotter squishy that was frantically probing the red lips of the impossibly-tiny-looking zit crater on my forehead. I remember thinking, "Wow! Righteous fuckin' `Frap!" but this seemed to be TOO much fun, more than just the usual religious rush -- my erecting nipples blasted circular holes in my Dobbshead(TM) T-shirt (as often happens), but as I tore the smoking shreds off my Anita Ekbergesque form, the sickly phosphorescent moonlight falling upon my exposed flesh made it burn and teem and crawl. I was just starting to appreciate the novelty of this new buzz when my entire head erupted in green stinking flame. I must have let myself go then, because, with a final, desperate thrust, the slimy member plunged past my cranial maidenhead and fucked its length to the hilt in my pineal gland. I came so hard I ripped the entire sink unit from the wall before I passed out, spasming.

I have no idea how long I was unconscious (a state SubGenii "in the know" call "Instant Slack"), but I enjoyed the hell out of it. I floated back to awareness in a tub full of warm water from the gushing broken pipes. After watching my tits float for awhile, I figured I'd assess the damage from that surprise Bobbercoaster ride. I sloshed out of the tub and clambered over the wreckage of the bathroom vanity cabinet to the mirror, expecting the worst... but, hell!! -- I had the gleaming hair of a Slut-Goddess, washed and coiffed and RRRRED as Second-Hand Sin! I had been transformed into the very image of the proverbial "hot ticket just waitin' to be punched," all thanks to Connie's special blend! I wished I hadn't used the whole drum, and wondered if I could find more. "What a truly effective consumer item," I mused as I ogled myself in the steamy mirror. Seized by rapturous gratitude, I murmured, "Connie, you're too muckin' fuch!" and impulsively kissed my reflection.

"Perhaps I'm still feeling the effects of that great `Frop," I thought, "but this sure doesn't feel like glass against my lips --" Suddenly a strange tongue thrust its way past my uvula as strong agile hands grabbed me by my ears and yanked me through the somehow-membraneous surface of the mirror. It felt like one of those disgusting MondoMagic musk-ox birth sequences with me as the calf, crossed with leaping facedown onto a trampoline covered with squid -- not an altogether unpleasant sensation, at least if you know what the fuck is happening, but I didn't. With a slurpy !splop! sound I was through, and fell into a roll as I hit the floor, hard. For the second time that night I lost consciousness , and took some more Cerebral Slack Time.

The first thing I became aware of was the raunchy bumpin' n' grindin' sound of a strip club blues band. I lay still for several moments before I turned my ringing head around towards the dim light and fixed my wavering vision on some sort of glimmering, bobbing object moving steadily back and forth, back and forth, just a few inches from my nose. The hypnotic motion was beginning to take its toll on me. Just as I was about to phase out again, the glittery thing came towards me and nudged me on the chin, and a sibilantly strident and obviously tipsy soprano voice cut through the smoky haze: "C'mon, ya lazy tart! Yer cuttin' into some valuable drinkin' time!"

As I focused I realized the glittering thing was the toe of a beat-to-shit gold lamé size 7 Spring-o-lator mule keeping time with the throbbing bass. My gaze traced a path up a shapely calf, over a rather razor-nicked knee, and up past silken stocking tops to -- I didn't know who this broad was, but I was being shot the biggest beaver in the known universe, and then some! I must have obviously gaped at this unexpected display, because ripe laughter rang out and the voice said, "Hey, what is this? You read lips, or what?" I was searching for just the right droll bon mot that this particular situation called for, but all I could do was sputter unintelligibly. "I said c'mon, get up! Ya waitin' for me to shoot ya a moon, too, Reverend Flooze?" the apparition exhorted, using my SubGenius name. Hearing it jarred me like a shot of cheap butyl nitrate. I was right, whatever was happening was more than just one of my better `Frop-induced hallucinations -- this must be vital Church business! Before I was aware of even considering the idea of moving, I found myself standing at attention before a frowsy-looking cigarette-sucking brunette in a sausage-casing-tight cocktail sheath with two beaded tassels dangling impertinently from her bustline, perched on a bamboo barstool at a bamboo bar in what looked like a good reconstruction of a condemned waterfront dive. Although I recognized the look as pure Tura Satana from Irma la Douce, this wasn't St. Tura. The essence of St. Tura was there, to be sure--but there was something even more under the surface. My third nostril picked up an incredibly powerful psi-stench somewhat reminiscent of the Tar Pits of Impurity. Then our eyes met and I knew it was actually HER in the luscious carnal flesh, the Divine One, the Tammy Faye Bakker of Slack, the Sacred Little Woman, "Bob's" Better Half, it was, it was, it was--

"CONNIE!!! CONNIE FUCKING DOBBS!!!" I shrieked. It lacked finesse, but it was quick and to the point. Whattawoman! Although "Bob" always took the standard Hugh-Beaumont-clone-with-pipe form, no two pictures of Connie ever looked the same. I'd had no idea what she really looked like. Stunned, I gawped at her as she guffawed and took a long pull from the champagne glass. It was the largest champagne glass I'd ever seen, just immensive, but she easily drained the entire glass in an unbroken series of sloppy gulps. Triumphantly she set the empty fish-bowl-sized glass back down on the bar, saying, "Yep, none other than!" then, discreetly covering her lushly full crimson lips, the Immoral Immortal let out the tiniest of burps, and said, "Oops! `Scuse me--!"

Impressed by her drinking ability and modest good manners, I was saying, "O Diva of Deviance, don't worry about a little burp --" when suddenly a sonic boom of a fart rent the air that sent the Celestial Anti-Virgin's barstool spinning, singed the ends off my hair, and damn near knocked me on my still-bare ass! Connie just howled with maniacal glee as she spun around. "Phew, shoulda torched that one! Damn champers always gets me right in the butt! HA!" She braked to a halt and I realized her whole look had changed somehow during her whirl. Now it was a sort of diaphanous-caftan-St. Cleopatra number with way too much eyeliner -- and a wide expanse of creamy hooter, I noticed as she reached forward to inspect the still smoldering ends of my auburned-out locks. So this was why Connie had always been depicted as a sort of mutable EveryOverWoman! She was all babes from all times and all planes at once, a teeming multitude of SleazeQueens in one bitchin' package! "Good thing I didn't pyroflatulate, eh, Hon? I forgot how molecularly unstable that `Flattering Fraud' hair crap is. Shit, I coulda had an `incident' on my hands." She squinted at the damage. "Gee, it looks like the orbits of the electrons in the atoms of your hair are already decaying -- you dumb twat, you're not on the rag, are you? Didn't you read the damn instructions?"

"Uh, I, uh, no. But not ever reading them is kinda my policy, you know? I may have tits, but I'm a SubGenius." I eyed the stubby, smoking, ravaged ends which were sparking evilly. So much for my new deluxe `do. Connie laughed. She laughed a lot.

"Don't worry, it all won't fall out -- it'll more or less just vaporize. Try to keep away from flammables for awhile. And don't worry about your menstrual cycle--I parked it outside for ya." With a conspiratorial wink, she laughed and stubbed out her cigarette, then vented the last of the smoke through her ears. "Ha, this is too rich -- "Bob" would just shit blood over this one! You mean you managed to just stumble on the precise transportal ritual buzzwords and everything, down to the zit over your pineal gland and the FIST ink, by pure fucking ACCIDENT?"

"I guess so. What's the ink thing--?" So that's why all the weird shit was going on tonight! At least some things were falling into place.

"Step Six was to rub the latest copy of the STARK FIST all over your pud until you smear "Bob" off of the cover. FISTfucking, if you will. Not the usual thing a girl would happen to be doing, of course." Suddenly Connie peered at me archly and flared her nostrils, all three of them. I thought fleetingly of all the turgid masturbatory mindsex marathons I'd had with "Bob" as the MeatMaster o' Ceremoanings, and felt a pang of guilt. After all, this was no ordinary blowsy broken-down barfly -- this was the long-suffering Wife o' Dobbs, who must put up with tens of thousands of squealing Bobbies yearning and squirming for her husband, her Man, her "Bob," just aching to press their wet nubile flesh against his throbbing lust-lance and ultraviolate every available orifice they possess plus some new vents they don't know they have -- oops, it was too late. I caught myself and looked up to see that Connie's St. Cleo mode was now augmented with the huge eyes of a Keane Anorexic Orphan Matchgirl velvet painting. The pain in her big blue watery eyes told me she'd whiffed me but good. "Oh. So you just HAPPENED to be rubbing your poon all over my "Bob"'s face. I see." A single tear rolling down her chin precipitated a veritable mudslide of makeup. She smeared away Hurricane Maybelline with the back of her hand and reached for her champagne glass (which was somehow full again) and chugged until her nostrils foamed. I wondered if she were cleansing her nasal palate of the stench of my perfidious sexual treachery and I hung my head in shame. She reached for a bar napkin and blew it full of champagne-laced sinus ectoplasm with a loud, wet honk, then leaned against the bamboo bar resignedly and metamorphosed into a topless St. Candy Barr cowgirl look with Texas Star pasties glinting on her pert-as-hell boobs and a rhinestone gunbelt slung low on her curvaceous hips. "It's okay, Sugar, have a seat," Connie said, waving one of her jeweled sex-shooters at a stool that popped into existence next to me. "That lyin' rat and his `Wanderin' Little DobbsHead' bullshit! Don't I know he's been sinking the pink every time I turn my fucking back! Oh, you're okay--it's not like he actually physically boned you or anything. I hear you're one of the few Church gashes whose furrow he hasn't plowed. Men -- I swear, if I wanted more shit in my life I woulda eaten more fiber."

As she showed no inclination to use her glittering sidearms on me, I regained a precious modicum of Slack. The cigarette-scorched simulated-leopard-vinyl seat chilled my asscheeks as I perched on the bamboo barstool and watched another identical glass materialize on the bar in front of me. Seeing the two humongous crystal globes side by side rang a familiar note that I couldn't place. I figured, "When in Dobbstown (or wherever the hell I was)..." and gamely wrestled my vat of bubbly to my lips and commenced what I thought was a world-class guzzle. There was a sudden familiar odor to the little teeming bubbles--could it be? Yes, NO2 -- Connie's Special Cuvée was supercharged with good ol' Church Air! Mmm-mmmm good. I gazed surreptitiously through the glass at Connie's anamorphically-stretched figure and realized that I felt a close kinship with this Cosmic Cooze-Queen. Connie was scarcely mentioned at all in a lot of Dobbs/SubG stuff--could it be that men, even SubGenius OverMen, even "Bob" himself -- FEARED her so much that they have let only the silliest ain't-that-just-like-a-dizzy-dame bits of Connie lore survive, mostly in the form of dirty limericks and old cuneiform Sex-to-Sexty groaners? Could it be that there was a Conspiracy among the Anti-Conspiracy Set to suppress the teachings of this Divine SlutMuffin, to keep her figuratively barefoot in the Kosmic Kitchen of the Church? "Bob" and his crew were starting to look just a little pink around the edges themselves, if you catch my drift. I had just met this poor babe, but I was warming to her in a big way. Connie Dobbs deserved the utmost respect and almost fetishistic adulation, and from the looks of it she sure as shit wasn't getting it from "Bob." Why he spurned the charms of such a goddess only showed me how truly jaded our High Epopt was. I always knew "Bob" was insane, but until now I never considered the possibility that he was rock-stupid, too.

When I finally lowered my glass, not a little smugly, I was taken aback that my Amazonian efforts hadn't put a dent in it. Surely this was Hassan-i-Sabbah's Garden of Earthly Delights, Bimbo Style! I didn't like seeing Connie so maudlin, so I belched loudly to change the subject. "UUURRRPP. So it's a fluke that I'm here, huh? Well, I'm glad I fucked up according to plan. I'm a big fan of yours. I've wanted to meet you even more than "Bob"," I gushed like some babbling groupie.

She perked up at that, all right, and said, "Oh yeah? YEEE-HAW!!!" and laughed and twirled and shot a few holes in the ceiling with her sex-guns, then she did this That Girl sort of thing to her hair and when it fell back into place I saw that it had turned a glowing suicide blond and her Texas Sex Ranger togs had morphed into a tight-fitting plunging hell-red beaded slink. She squealed somewhere in the ultrasonic frequencies, high enough to make a dog's ears bleed, and I recognized the look as St. Jayne from The Girl Can't Help It. The longer I was around Connie, the more I truly liked her. I felt like Heinrich Schliemann must have in the ruins of Knossos. "Well gee whiz, thanks, kid," she purred. "It's not often I hear such nice shit from someone who isn't trying to crawl into my pants."

That was when I realized with a jolt that the one thing I really wanted to do right then was to fuck her. I wanted to fuck Connie Dobbs. I wanted to fuck the living piss out of her right there on the bar, rolling around and yowling and rutting until the pain of the bamboo splinters digging into my butt made me pass out. I wanted to crawl inside this woman and snuffle around like a rabid wolverine in a gunny sack full of liver. I wanted to floss my teeth with her flaxen, wispy --

Suddenly I was aware that Connie was explaining something important to me and I wasn't hearing Word One. I'd had no idea of the powerful seductive magnetism that she just naturally exuded--my braincase was all tingly-vibratey. I swallowed hard and with some effort shook myself back into whatever time frame we were inhabiting, trying to look blasé as hell, but Connie was fortunately oblivious to my sheepish squirming. "...and the hair glop instructions contained the special directions to my Troll-Free Connie's CUMmandoes Recruitment Office here, see? I don't know how you stumbled on it. Pretty good Luck-Plane surfing, I guess. Sorry about the last of your hair, Jugs -- at least now we can burn one." Using her crotch like a Buick's cigarette lighter, she fired up the biggest joint I had ever seen and passed it over.

As I greedily slorked up the `Frop fumes from the Louisville-Slugger-sized J-stick, she gently caressed my now-bare-as-a-boob head, and I realized the minty-fresh tingling sensation had been the last few follicles explosively catapulting out of my scalp like little Kryptonian rockets. Because of Connie's heady aura I was already sticking to the leopard print barstool, but without my hair and with Connie just casually stroking me and all, I really started feeling naked. As if I weren't addled enough in this ozone & smut-drenched atmosphere, she started to morph again until this time she was St. Mamie from Untamed Youth, wearing only a thin white slip. The `Frop buzz was putting an erotically charged edge on everything and I could feel my pounding heart keeping time with the Conga-Band-on-Dexedrine soundtrack. I swallowed hard again, not wanting to mortify myself, and took another drag and tried to look attentive. "Molecular implosion of your hair is an unsightly side-effect of an off-kilter hormonal flux," she was explaining. "That earthbound monthly hemorrhage Tampax-pluggin' crap is a goddamn pain in the ass. The chicken-shit bastards, they have it constitutionally all sewn up from back when we Oozing Ones didn't have the Vote -- legally blind-side us with ganglia-frying agony on a regular basis, just to distract us enough so that they have an edge. Even I have to put up with it! Remember the old `Plagues o' Egypt' scam JHVH-1 was running? I did the `Bloody Nile' bit just for kicks since I had the raw materials to work with, and it was a gusher! I knocked out the fuckin' Pharaoh's Lighthouse with my Sin-Crimson Uterine Soup! But that's one of the few times I had fun with it. I'm glad I can at least transcend all that shit in my little inter-dimensional bailiwick here-- 'Connie's Boom-Boom Room!'" She indicated the black velvety expanse with a wave of her glass.

As wreaths of `Frop smoke encircled us, a thought occurred to me. "Say, why aren't we smoking this out of a pipe? I always heard that "Bob"--"

Her sudden snarl took me by surprise. "Let me tell you, girlfriend-- "Bob"'s pipe isn't all of his I've stopped suckin' on! And that goes double for his elite candy-assed nancy boys, too!"

My cranial contents reeled as I absorbed this scathing blasphemy from such saintly lips. I was speechless, so I have no dialogue here. Connie drew me so close I got BrainVaporLock in my frontal lobes from the suffocating aroma of her Love Potion #9 to the 10th Power Squared, and I heard her murmur in my ear: "This is the one place where those jellydicks can't finger me, in any sense of the word. But you sure can, sweetmeat." She oozed down the front of me like Carnal Caramel and was nuzzling my fun fur before it hit Ground Zero in my mind just what was happening. My senses swam and gurgled--it was like one of those twisted fantasies straight out of the FIST that I'd always thought were just so much pathetic pud-pounding! She -- CONNIE -- was actually coming on to me!! Hell, not just coming on to me, she was fervently dusting off my Doormat of Desire!! The Conga Band was overdosing on Ketamine now and my tits shuddered and danced like crazy manatees. I looked down at my fingers entwined in the thrashing platinum Mamie `do and her hair begin to writhe and flow and turn chestnut auburn. I moaned, "Oh, Connie -- who now --?" I felt a little "pop," then she looked up at me and I saw the glint of fangs against scarlet lips, the now-unnecessary tampon dangling from her teeth. With a quick head snap, she flung the gory item end over end into the darkness. "Give up? -- Ingrid Pitt from The Vampire Lovers! Good one, huh?" She guffawed and leered lewdly.

I couldn't help myself, I burst into shrieking gales of laughter at that one. But the Anti-Virgin's curriculum didn't end at Humor, and right then Connie meant Business. My gleeful chortles quickly turned into troglodytic rut-grunts as again she plunged tongue-first into my steaming Autoclave of Carnality and served me up a heapin' helpin' of my own eggs, well-scrambled. God, she could cook, too! I felt her knowing fingers probing for my G-spot -- the place where my Gearshift was -- and knew we were going to commit a CONNIEsecrated manual transgression! I pitched and yawed and wailed in the bamboo SexStool as she shifted my noodle into overdrive like Juan Manuel Fangio at the Argentine 500 -- but, NO, it was far from just overdrive! Connie was still revving my white-hot engine and shifting me unbelievably higher and HIGHER!!! Why, all this time I had prided myself on being a quasi-nyphomaniacal 18-speed, but Connie took me through all 666 gears that every woman possesses, tapping into reservoirs of synapse-searing ecstasies I didn't know I even had! Then she started flicking my clitoral doorbell with her false eyelashes like a belt sander gone mad! When the fireball of my final penultimate orgasm hit home, my body started to pinwheel like a cheap firework until I just disintegrated into so much SexShrapnel. The black velvet depths swallowed me up and I went on serious Brain Recess again.

When the batteries in the smoke detectors had all given out and the aftershocks were less and less frequent, I finally opened my eyes. I was still having convulsions, but that's my idea of a good time. The music was now a twangy surfabilly set with lots and lots of trash guitar. Gazing overheard through the lingering fumes, I could dimly make out the two of us in the ceiling mirrors, snuggling at the bottom of a modest 3-foot deep impact crater no doubt blasted out by the depth-charge of our ardor. Well, my ardor at least, I thought, heh heh. Simultaneous eruptions from both of us would probably have leveled the space-time continuum for light years in all directions. "Gee, Connie," I murmured gratefully into her shell-like ear, "You're too muckin' fuch."

"That's another thing that cracks my ass. That's my TWATS line Telex code, and you just came up with it on your own. It must be true -- I AM too muckin' fuch!" She laughed and I saw that now she wore a crooked puked-champagne-blond wig that looked somehow familiar, and her lip movements weren't anywhere near in sync with her words. Then I saw the grotesquely mammoth buxotic bazongas and it all clicked -- as Louie Unit #15 had based the classic design of the champagne glass on the breasts of his mistress the Marquise de Pompadour, so had Connie used St. Chesty Morgan's humongous 73-inch mammarial appendages for her model! She passed me my bubbly, the glass lightly clenched between her huge jugs, and I knew I was right. It looked like three weather balloons in a chorus line, the middle one crystalline. I took it, then she relit the clown-cigar-sized stub of the joint with a single torrid glare.

I finished off the last three or four quarts of Cuvée Connie in a mighty gurgling effort. "No, Connie, I really mean it. I've never been with a woman before --"

"NHGHshit, Toots, I've seen your files."

"Ah, er, I mean I've never been with a woman like YOU -- nothing, not even major industrial appliances nor those bimonthly SexSafari Miscegenation Tours at Dobbstown have ever cranked my tractor like you just did, Connie. I'm all yours, O Hornucopia of Hell, I'll be your Caked Joy Rag till the EndTimes come. Do with me what you will -- I'll knock over the Hibernia National Bank for you, I'll pull the train on the Xists, I'll clean the mildew outta all your grout with "Bob"'s brand-new toothbrush -- the worst heresy pales next to my devotion to you." Another delicious tremor raced through me and made my nipples shoot sparks again. "Wheeedamn!!! Anything, Connie. You name it."

There was just a hint of brimstone in Connie's smile. "Well, now that I've snared your attention, would you like to hear my enlistment spiel for Connie's CUMmandoes'?" she purred. I murmured my eager affirmation. "I wouldn't be briefing you on any of this if you hadn't passed my vigorous screening. I'm sure you've noticed, Reverend, that the Church's image has been getting a little too crotchety and old-farty lately, and it's those devilpraise Testosterone Jockeys in Charge who are to blame for it. They're getting too complacent -- so complacent that they're beginning to resemble the same tight-assed pink boys that they killed and ate to replace! Things are really going to suck merde majeure if something isn't done to shake `em up, and soon."

"But I heard you had all the Hierarchy Boys eating out of your lap! Didn't that bring them around?" I thought of our great spiritual leaders--Philo, Stang, Hypercleats, Sterno, Gordon, Vreedeez, Wellmanhead, Nenslo, Naked -- Exalted OverMen whose words of greatnis had been electrochemically embedded in my brain from my earliest nursery days at Mistress Medea Dobbs' Institute of Higher Learning & Sweatshop. I had great imprinted knee-jerk respect for these esteemed organisms, but I had seen the power of Connie for myself. Surely they weren't that brain-dead --!

"Those pussy-lipped inbred drooling dick-bearing varmints!" Connie spat at what was left of the wood floor and the acid of her disdain ate clean through the planks. "Yeah, I fucked `em, all right -- every one of `em, at least fifty times, right on down the line. But did it do any good, did they come around?! No!! They only came, period, then wiped their whangers off on my silken thighs and went home to write about it like they had fucked me! I even heard that Dr. Howl and Vreedees reaped a fucking fortune off it hawking their "I DROWNED CONNIE DOBBS" T-shirts and beer snuggies! They took my plaintive entreaties for a HUGE fucking joke, even the ones who couldn't get pussy if they owned a cat food factory!!" The monstrous tits quaked and steam started shooting out of every orifice as she shifted her setting to "High Dudgeon." "And talk about `assault with a diddly weapon' -- they all fucked WORSE than Helen Keller trying to get a goddamn gherkin out of a punchbowl with a cocktail fork! I had to bring myself off psychoteleclitorally just so I wouldn't die of absolute total boredom!! Not that I had much time to get bored -- you could time those clods with a soft-boiled egg timer!!! And of course they were sure that it was their electrifying humping that made ME get my nut!! If their dicks could inflate HALF as much as their fucking egos, they'd be draggin' around hemipenes the size of the goddamn WORLD TRADE CENTER!!!! --"

Her badly-dubbed, screeching aria reached E above High Treason and the ceiling mirror shattered, sending down a deadly rain of razor-sharp shards that somehow just neatly missed piercing us. Connie stopped her high-octaving and fished a piece of glass out of her drink, flicked it away, and sighed. "Oh, it wasn't that I didn't try to get through to them. I just forgot that when they pop a boner, all higher functions just seize up like an XY-Edsel with a gas tank fulla' sugar. They prefer to think this phenomenon is caused by the `copious bloodrush' from the brain to the boogie bone, but an ant's-eyedropperful of the ol' red groovy doesn't make that much difference -- Cranial ConEd just shuts down. So no matter what I did -- and I outdid myself, believe me--I was just pounding sand. None of `em heard anything after I jumped on `em and yelled, `That man's nuts! Grab `em!!'"

She arose and helped me up out of the crater, the pendulous megamelons swinging ominously with the effort like mammoth wrecking balls. The patterns of our bodies left among the glimmering mirror shards looked like victim outlines from some Carnal CrimeScene. Connie plunked her butt down right on the bar in front of me and pinioned me with her gams. Her arms hung lazily around my neck as she stared me in the eye. "So it's come to this. I've got to take desperate measures, and it'd be a lot easier on me if I have your help and the aid of every OverWoman in the Church."

I fell into the vortex of her hypnotically-spinning OpArt eyes, like I was on the ShitTwister Ride at the "Bob"land Abusement Park. How could I say NO? I couldn't let the Bitch-Goddess of Babes down, no way! "Anything," I repeated forthrightly, my chin resolute.

"All RIGHT!" she crowed, and rammed my resolute chin down on her pulsating pudendum. It was like Connie was packin' the MIT Cyclotron between her thighs. Surprised, I gamely began to make motorboat noises with her 4-lipped love-liver to appease this Insatiable Saint, but apparently that wasn't the general/genital idea. "No, I want all of you!" Connie howled, and before I could figure out how to fulfill this request she gave me a mighty shove and my whole head popped into her famous Gristle-Grotto!

My stunned"Huhwhat?" came out kinda muffled. I could sense Connie's voice in my mind, urging me on deeper. The clasping wet-velvet walls of her Love Canal felt as squishy as the carpet in a Jerry Lewis Multi-Plex Cinema on Kids' Matinee Day. I felt the rest of my body slowly, unbelievably slip through the porkportal as I was shoved into the enveloping meat like a fence-post dildo. Just as my lungs were bursting for air, something gave and I tumbled into a vermilion vaginal waiting room filled with uncomfortable-looking NHGHhyde chairs and EndtimeTables littered with sleazy tattered strokebooks. I panted desperately -- it smelled like Cupid's Gymnasium in here. "Hey! Wait for me!" I heard behind me, and turned to see Connie/St. Chesty's wig appear through the clutching ring of muscle, followed by her head to the neck. But she appeared to be having trouble getting in -- no matter how much we grunted and pulled, something was holding her back. "It's these damn boobs! I don't know how that girl gets around like this!" she groused, and began to morph again to a less engorged form. St. Yvette Vickers as the feral little slut from Attack of the Fifty-Foot Woman seemed to fit the bill, and she slid in with a slimy slurp. As I wiped off with her proffered WetNap, Connie said, "I suppose you're wondering why I called you here."

"Screw WHY, I can't see out HOW the fuck you did this! And HOW the fuck do you get inside your own -- aaaaAAAGGGHH!!" The sheer brain pressure of trying to work out the grease-monkey quantum mechanics made my grey matter seethe like the glop in a Lava-Lite. I wrapped my arms around my still-bare aching head and let out a ululating wail.

"Boy, you're a blissfully Slack bitch, aren't you? Here's the roach --you need `Fropping bad." Connie passed me the toilet-paper-tube-sized "roach" and re-relit it with her hot breath. I greedily devoured the healing fumes, noticing she used a Dalkon Shield for a roach clip. "As to how I get inside myself, it's not much of a trick. Once you limber up enough, it's as easy as touching your toes."

I reluctantly exhaled the `Frop smoke. "That's easy for you to say. The last time I touched my toes was when they were handed to me after a tragic lawn-mowing accident."

"You lucky fuck, you're halfway there already! But don't start practicing now, ya bimbo!" Connie slapped me on the back and roared, then she gestured to a doorway at the far end of the room which I hadn't noticed. The flashing sign over the swinging saloon doors read, "HI, SAILOR, NEW IN TOWN?" Half the bulbs on it were blown, and the rest were thinking about it. From within, I heard a keening whistle as if the Aeolian Winds were on a drunken chicken-run in CarlsBob Caverns. I was almost afraid to go in there, but "SubGenii rush in where fools, angels, and pinks have pussied out," I remembered, so I took another toke and forged ahead towards the pulsating scarlet glow. Before I could go through the doors, Connie yanked me back by the scruff of my neck--it must have been my scruff, because there was little else to grab, at least from behind. "Don't bother with that place, everybody goes there," she said. "My true CONNIEstituency is in my Secret Lair."

"Hey, you don't think I'm a little underdressed for this KaffeeKlench you're dragging me to, am I?" I asked, perturbed. She didn't answer as she yanked aside a lovely antique brocade PeeDog-shooting-pool-with-PoopDog tapestry to reveal a massive titanium-steel door with CONNIE'S SECRET LAIR stencilled on it. She fell to her knees and began to work the combination lock with her incredibly agile mouth. I'd lay money that "Bob" didn't know about this set-up -- count on Connie to have two uterii! As she worked her CONNIElingual talents on the lock, I heard garbled mutterings like "O-I-C-U-8-1-2" or something, then the huge door yawned open without a creak. "Hey -- I guess you don't have much of a problem keeping things lubed enough in here, huh?" I quipped brightly.

She turned to me, and St. Yvette was suddenly St. Dorothy Parker. "Shit before Shinola, Party Doll!" St. Dottie/ Connie quipped in return and kicked my naked butt through the open doorway like a goddamn soccer ball. The clang of the closing door behind us echoed forebodingly as I picked myself up, shaking my head and breathing in a strong and familiar aroma slightly reminiscent of rotting mushrooms with a heaping dollop of old grody sweaty gym sox. The `Frop had certainly helped to buffer my twisting brain somewhat, but little did I know that not even `FROP could've prepared me to deal with the sprawling panorama that lay before me now--

Connie had apparently scored a good deal on one of St. Leni Riefenstahl's old sets from That's Goosestepping! Part II. The immense menstrual-blood-red banners fluttered over a cast of millions, all arranged in strict orderly grid-patterns that stretched out across the vista until they blurred together into one mass at the sunset-splashed horizon line. Connie herself began to blur and shift into Ilsa, She-Wolf of the SubGenii. With a discreet "Yo, Flooze! Shake a leg!" to me, she commenced an imperious march up the center aisle towards the podium in the distance, with me scrambling behind as I tried to keep up. As I got closer, I saw that the usual swastikas on both the banners and on her incredibly chic uniform had been replaced with a symbol of her own, one that looked like a huge round leopard-print map of Earth with a steel rattail comb stuck through it. "Yeah, swastikas have been done to death, kind of like what's happening to St. Betty Page nowadays," she muttered out of the side of her mouth, "So I hired that dupe Wilson Bryan Key to design me a fresh new logo. It's a masterpiece of SubG-liminal Messages. Check it out, but don't stare directly at it for prolonged periods." Squinting, I studied the rippling flags looming overhead as Connie mounted the reviewing stand to the sloshing -- sloshing? -- cheers of the assembled multitudes, dragging me along. Here and there the leopard pattern would seem to wriggle about, and hypno-suggestive hints would almost-but-not-quite dimly appear, things like "Kill for Connie" and "There IS a prob' with "Bob." Throwing a comradely arm about my shoulders, she turned me around and gestured towards the masses before us and cried out, "Reverend Susie, allow me to present `Connie's CUMmandoes'!" From this vantage point I surveyed the crowd for the first time, and my eyes bugged out like a Tex Avery effect.

"YEEEEEAAAGGGGGHHHHHH!!! Connie, what gives?! It's jizz! It's nothing but thousands of square-acre-size Petri dishes fulla' overgrown spuzz!! Just billions of huge teeming sperm cells!! I do admit they look pretty smart with those uniforms and earphones and heat-seeking bazookas, but what the D-double-doggone fuck is going on here?!" My "Wendy Ward Charm School" demeanor was wearing as thin as Karen Carpenter in a vomitorium. I had the feeling that later Miss Manners herself would hunt me down like an animal to brutally pound the crap out of me for my preposterous rudeness, but I'd have to kick that crotch when I came to it. Right now, even though "sense" was definitely NOT my strong suit, I had to get a grip on it all. I grabbed Connie by her Nazi-but-nice lapels like a rabid bag lady, babbling and drooling madly, and totally lost the last few tattered remnants of my shit.

Connie just endured my fit with tired, patient tolerance until that playful little pixie called "Exhaustion" finally forced me to settle down by strangling my windpipe and cutting off my oxygen. "Was it good for you?" she asked, arching a perfectly-plucked eyebrow at me rather sardonically. I gasped out a craven apology as she took another WetNap to the spit-trails on the front of her uniform. She shot me a piercing look. "You're not some wimpy-ass pink-girl, are you? Don't make me lose my trust in you, Reverend." Her voice was leaden with import. I responded to her challenge by dragging myself to my feet and trying to look like something close to a vertebrate. "Now -- let's get down to brass tactics."

Connie indicated the hordes of VW-beetle-sized, tail-whipping spermatozoa with triumphant pride. "Ah, gaze upon them! `The Aces in My Hole,' so to speak -- the largest of them are from "Bob"'s own stock, gathered from a variety of animal and vegalien orifices. Sure, "Bob" may be treatin' me wrong, but that OverMan's spunk ain't punk! I've been carefully culturing these come-colonies on the sly for just a few months. They're continually bombarded with Gamma Rays, while the headphones play psychosis-inducing HeavyMental music, packed with embedded audio SubG-liminals featuring me crooning sappy sentimental lullabies and reading them stuff like The Little Fuckwad That Could and Madame Ovary. And AnaBobic Steroids --? Why, they're soaking in them! When these BadBoys are ready they'll be gargantuan, vicious, and loyal, two of my favorite things. Uh, three." Her face began to flush as her Rant quickened. "This is how I ultimately plan to conquer "Bob" and his peeny-ante poopy-butt Wuss Patrol -- I have marshalled a fucking Army of their own SexSap to send forth against them! It looks like there's gonna be a shootout on the ol' Jism Trail sometime soon -- talk about bein' betrayed by yer own DICK!" Connie threw her head back and let out a wild shrieking laugh that sounded like New Year's Eve in a nuthouse, and started to morph again as all Hell broke loose. The remaining hairs on my body bristled while bursts of glowing ball lightning crackled around her like a Kenneth Strickfaden effect, limning her St. Elsa Bride of Frankenstein hair eerily. Goddoggit, but Connie was beautiful when she was angry!

I applauded avidly and all the Connie's CUMmandoes slapped their thrashing ciliae in approval. The Gooshy Goddess hit a button on the podium console and the pyrotechnics petered out. "Whew, I just love a parade," she said as I WetNapped off her fevered forehead.

"O Patroness of Perverts, what can I do for you?" I fawned, hoping it wouldn't be scrubbing out the stinky sperm-troughs.

"Well, I do need someone to scrub out these stinkin' jizz-jars," Connie mused, then snickered evilly, "but I'll save that shit-job for those toppled Pink despots after our Coup de Twat. Maybe I'll save it for "Bob" himself." Her flashing eyes narrowed. "But I've got to have more Fightin'SpermPower before I can realize my glorious, twisted dream! I need spunk worse'n Mars Needs Women, and this is where YOU -- ahem-- 'come' in, my eager Little Miss FuckBucket, you and as many of the she-Subs that you can gather. Here's what you girls've gotta do -- Fuck the dang Hell out of all the Male Subs! Gang up on `em `n' hog-tie `em if necessary!" She produced some condoms made out of bicycle tire tubing with a knot in the end, and a rubber FuckFrisbee with a Penis Fly-Trap sort of pocket. "Either trick your 'Misery Dates' into wearing these `CONNIE brand' 10-mil-thick scumbags, or if all else fails, use my NEWHav-A-Hart Diaphragm(TM). This receptacle here is like a Roach motel/crackhouse for Spermatozoids, see. The little cocksuckers check in for a good time, but they don't get around to leaving a wake-up call because they do the bad drugs `til they're comatose -- then those lil' beauties conveniently stay fried to the gills until UPS gets `em to me -- see, there's my PostCoital Office Box Number printed on the side of each unit, along with a space for the date of capture -- and then I bring `em down here and shake `em out into that sweet SteroidStew. And if you have unforeseen trouble getting suspicious SubGuys to turn over their voided rubbers -- just tell `em ya want a souvenir, yar har har, those vain saps always fall for that one! Easy as hair pie."

Then, Connie transfixed me with her gaze like I was a Boston Butt Roast and she was a rotisserie. "Reverend Flooze -- your job, should you decide to accept it, will be to swipe as much spuzz as you can from the Male SubGenius camp. If every OverWoman will pitch in and milk every OverMan like he's Elsie-fucking-Borden --' till they all run dry -- I estimate that by Sadie Hawkins-Glutz Day next year our Clitzkrieg will be ready to roll! We'll teach those swaggering snot-nosed Impotentates a lesson in 'Sharing the Slack' that they won't soon forget! No man likes getting his ass whupped by his own mutated SexSlop, especially in an armed conflict! We'll replace the stale old `XY-erarchy' with my "Chamber of Connies!'"

The wind started kicking up as she wound up for the pitch again, so I cut her short by accepting her offer. "Say no more -- I'm sold! If I'm going to be a Soldier of Fortune, let it be a fortune in fucking Slack! Where do I sign up to be a Cunt for Connie?"

Gleefully Connie Frankenstein chucked me on the chin. "Ha, you're a real trouper, Kid! I knew you couldn't resist a chance-of-an-unspecified-lifetime like this. Actually, there's nothing to sign, but there is a traditional ceremonial initiation thing..." The Blessed Anti-Virgin clasped my face in her hands and kissed me on my still-sensitive pineal gland, sending galvanic jolts all the way to my MojoMound. I thought, "Hey sure, I could use a little more animalistic amatory action, heh heh," and then everything began to blur and shift and melt. A Wizard-of-Oz-type voice boomed out, catching me in mid-hump -- "Gaze upon the TRUE VISAGE of CONNIE DOBBS!" it roared, and I looked up and -----------!

I'm not sure how long I was on PsiVacation this time, but I awoke still grinning and shuddering and twingeing to find an envelope in my clenched fingers with a short drunkenly-scrawled note on the back, saying:

Dear `Holster Gullet,'

Good luck in your new positions. Remember, now--spread

the word, and spread those legs! Thanks, and here's a small

token of my deep, deep, deep (and I mean DEEP) appreciation.

Love Ya Hard,


Inside the envelope was a token, all right -- a fucking bus token. The Blessed Bitch had apparently decided to further test my mettle by dumping me, stark naked and bald, at a bus stop in downtown Atlanta. It was difficult keeping a low profile while I waited for my ride. I boarded nonchalantly, ignoring the curious stares of the nosy pea-brained pink onlookers and feeling warm and secure in the knowledge that as long as Connie had a use for me, I'd probably survive for awhile longer yet. As I contemplated my sacred mission, I felt a swell of pride. Boy howdy, I couldn't wait to tell the goils, and start my own personal Spuzz Collection for Connie!! What a chance to do something really vital and necessary! Then suddenly I stopped feeling quite so naked, and I realized that my SubGenius faith, forged in the Fires of Connie's Unnatural Desires, was all the covering I needed. "Indeed," I thought, as I pulled the wool over my own eyes and snoozed like a chloroformed baby all the way home.