Friday, August 17, 2012

Big Wheels Keep On Turnin'

Earlier this week I read the story below at an erotic fan fiction competition at Nerdist Theatre. I chose to write about the monster truck "Bigfoot". I thought you might be interested in reading it. The picture above isn't Bigfoot, but it was so weird I had to include it. Enjoy!


            The massive silver door of the oversized garage glistened with dew and mystery in the Hawaiian moonlight.  Airbrushed with alarmingly lifelike accuracy on the side  of the garage was an image of the most monstrous truck the world has seen – with a body painted as blue as the veins of a throbbing arm-sized lower man thing(I don’t mean leg) and wheels larger than a dong, anybody who gazed at this illustrated behemoth of power and iron and oil and sweat and decals could do nothing but harden uncontrollably and for hours. If you didn’t do this, you obviously aren’t a man.  
            Inside the garage lay the truck itself – Bigfoot, the legendary monster truck that everybody thinks is cool -  a marvel of hugeness that dripped car-semen(AKA oil) all over the shag carpeting that upholstered the ceilings, walls and floor of the luxurious room it lounged within. The whirr and a click of a remote control shattered the calm, steely silence of the probably-not-haunted room and the garage door rose as painfully as a really bad crap. A figure clad in a black robe stepped into the room, holding a Venetian mask over its mystery face, accompanied by several similarly dressed figures. They all had tenting erections that poked through the fabric of their robe-pants in a comical but arousing way but you could tell they think it looked good, which it certainly does to me! But it scared Bigfoot, who like most cars, could think but not talk. Behind the robed figures were more robed figures, all of whom were relatively well endowed and smelled of clean linen, no hint of ever having done the move of taking a dump. The room filled with almost a hundred of them and they all picked Bigfoot up and hoisted him up, like our guys hoisted the Iwo Jiwa flag. The tall figure who had walked in first spoke up:
“ Oh sexy vehicle, the brotherhood of the Car-Grinder has urgent need of you.”
“Noooo” thought Bigfoot, but he couldn’t say anything so instead he just turned on his car alarm. Speaking of ‘turned on’, Bigfoot couldn’t help but be more than even quite a little bit turned on by all the attention these dudes were giving him/it.  Bigfoot’s coolant was working overtime but it wasn’t stopping it from getting hot and bothered. His car thermometer exploded from the firm, knowledgeable touches on his rump area that the people carrying him from the back were doing.  He was so excited that he shut down entirely.
When Bigfoot ‘came’ to, he was trussed up like a prize steer at the 1914 Pennsylvania Trussing Competition & Trade Show.  ‘Foot’s. headlight eyes looked straight ahead and saw a fancy room.  The smell of roasted chicken was in the air and all these dudes were in tuxedoes – still wearing the Venetian masks. The sound of a bongo drum filled the moist air as each one of the tuxedo-clad fellas ritualistically dropped trou and their boner smell wafted into Bigfoot’s exhaust pipe and spoilers, so pungent that the gears almost short circuited from the erotic musk-reek that brought to mind a combination of mosquito repellent, chicken broth, a bourgeois lifestyle and the slime from You Can’t Do That On Television. The first one walked up to Bigfoot and slid his soft crotch-finger all over Bigfoot’s ridged, circular wheel. A sudden feeling of being surrounded made Bigfoot realize he was surrounded. All of these guys were sliding against him, rutting his metal like it was cheap foam and they all had foam fetishes. By the end of the first wave, Bigfoot looked like it had been dunked in a vat of pleasure-glop. Which was basically what had happened.  Then the lights went out and the tall figure who had led the abduction walked up to Bigfoot.
“Do I seem familiar, Biggy?” breathed the cloaked man into Bigfoot’s left side mirror, which was kind of equivalent to an ear. How strange that this man knew Bigfoot’s secret nickname. Something must be up! And not just dicks.
The figure started to remove his mask. Then he said “I bet you’re wondering who I am. Well, I’ll just tell you. I’m your creator Bob Chandler. The designer and inventor of the Bigfoot monster truck.” Then he took off the mask, revealing the fact that what he said had been true and he was who he said he was. Bigfoot’s headlights figuratively widened in shock and awe.
“Why?” thought Bigfoot. Bob answered the thought:  “Two words: gotta make that money. These robed men are all former and current presidential candidates and they pay top dollar to have sex with a monster truck.” One of the men lowered his mask, briefly revealing the winking face of  Ralph Nader. “I can’t wait to test your emissions.” sultried Nader, in his trademark judgmental monotone. Pushing Ralph aside, Bob returned Bigfoot’s attention to his talking mouth.
 “But I wanted to be the last one you remembered.”
Bob Chandler slid toward Bigfoot like a horny slug, complete with trail of slime. But just as Bob was about to enter the truck’s hard exhaust pipe, the deep bellow of a spiritually wounded prehistoric ape redirected everyone in the room’s attention from car sex. The front door had been ripped front its hinges– not from the wind, or magnets - but from the strong arms of the hairy Bigfoot monster, who had come to save his namesake. First he punched one guy, then another, and finally a third guy. The rest of the guys ran away. Except for Bob Chandler, whose piss-hose was caught inside the aroused exhaust pipe. Bigfoot ran up to Bigfoot and starts having sex with Bob Chandler until Bob spontaneously combusted from the friction and satisfaction. Revenge is served!
After a moment of repose, Bigfoot entered the same-name monster truck and drove them both out of the garage, and straight into the Pacific Ocean.  Neither were seen ever again, but on a quiet Hawaiian night, if you listen closely enough, you can hear a gross animal bellow and the honk of a massive carhorn, and know that two kind souls are finally enjoying the peace they never got to enjoy on Terra Firma. Perhaps it is we who are the real monster…trucks. 


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