"Women in the Chinese Communist Party"
Not only was Lijian stoked to serve his country, he was also elated to have an excuse to speak with Dou Dou. Her status had not only been restored, but had been elevated, in his eyes, after he’d learned of her efforts, her persistence in the struggle.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer And now, they’d be in frequent contact, and he’d be within mere meters of the goddess, her perfect body… her sugary, peach-soft skin…
It’d turned out, too, that she was Comrade Zhang’s niece, had been recruited that past summer, and had already been writing online comments for two months.
After the meeting, they left together and Lijian kept his gaze fixed on the floor, struggling to maintain eye contact with a girl so beautiful. He felt his heart thumping, his pulse racing, his mouth dry as sand. Walking down the administration building’s long gray hallway, the cold air of the concrete building slapped at them, and as they padded toward the elevator, Dou Dou told him that their team would consist of two other English majors, along with International Trade and Marketing majors.
Dou Dou was the first girl Lijian had ever really talked with. In school, primary, middle, high school, and even at college, the boys and girls mostly sat strictly segregated by gender, on opposite sides of the classroom, opposite sides of the cafeteria, opposite sides of student association meetings. Some interacted, and there were a handful of couples, but the majority maintained their distance, remaining pathologically shy around one another, almost to a crippling degree...
Dou Dou wasn’t shy, though, like most of the other girls. She was outgoing, plain-spoken, and, when talking with Lijian, she carried herself more like a man. It was this forthright nature that began to set Lijian at ease, but actually, in a way, he found it turned him off. He didn’t appreciate her assertiveness. Watching her bark orders, to him, felt emasculating, and lessened the sting of her beauty, to the point he began to view her, more and more, as a man.
His crush on her again evaporated. Though, unlike before, he respected her as a comrade. He thought of Chairman Mao’s teachings on women in the Party. And, in Lijian’s eyes, Dou Dou, Comrade Dou Dou, became just another warrior in the struggle.
“Coming from a Position of Strength”
The online commenters’ introductory meeting was held in the evening, in a small study room at the university’s library.
There were 8 people, including Dou Dou at the meeting. All except Dou Dou were males. Dou Dou, again, was in a loose floral-patterned dress. And this evening, she wasn’t wearing makeup. For a split second, Lijian didn’t even recognize her.
Dou Dou, standing with perfect posture, stalked toward the head of the table.
Carrying herself like a TV show host, she called the meeting to order, presented each participant with a sparkly new smartphone and a sparkly new laptop. She told them that each device was equipped with a VPN, and then launched a PowerPoint presentation on how to use the VPN, as well as showed them how to log into their database, where articles were assigned, comments logged, memes and talking points distributed.
Then Dou Dou demonstrated. Her laptop hooked up to a projector, she logged on to Twitter. There were gasps in the room, jaws gaping as the group saw the forbidden foreign website for the first time. They’d seen screenshots of tweets but never had seen the real, live site. Lijian felt his stomach clench.
Dou Dou brought up a tweet listed by their database. An English language tweet posted by a Japanese Foreign Ministry spokesperson. Then Dou Dou demonstrated to them how she’d respond, word by word, along the lines of the talking points. Afterward, she showed them how to post the tweet.
Then it was time to get down to business. A trial run. The 7 boys arched in front of their glowing laptops, all of them tweeting on the same post that Dou Dou had just replied to. They all followed the talking points yet reworded their statements.
The boys’ eyes bulged as they tapped furiously at their keyboards, and Dou Dou circled the room, hands clasped behind her back, watching the crew work.
“Wumao’s Words Deadlier than a Virus from Fort Detrick”
Lijian took to commenting like a fish to water. He'd already been doing so, anyway, on Sina, in Chinese, leaving supportive comments on international news stories involving China. But this was different. He wasn't preaching to the choir any longer. He was broadcasting to the world! The whole world! And he felt honored to be serving his country in this capacity.
On weekends, evenings, after completing his school assignments, he'd sit hunched over his designated phone or laptop, his shoulders up, his tongue clamped between his teeth. Often, he'd send 15 to 20 tweets per day, comment on 10 or 15 Western newspaper articles and Reddit posts. On a rainy day, with little homework to complete, he could perhaps send 40 tweets, hit 20 to 30
articles and Reddit subs.
But it wasn't always easy. As Comrade Zhang had warned him, some of the articles, commenters on social media were indeed horrible. They made his skin crawl. He hated them. He hated everything about them. He hated the names they'd call him. He hated their intentionally mislabeled maps, and the terrible things they'd say about his beloved country. He'd feel nauseous seeing them posting mocking memes, puerile pictures of his dear leaders.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer
Sometimes their libel would even seep into his dreams. He'd have nightmares or be unable to sleep, his mind racing, his mind like a dripping faucet, the revolting foreigners' ugly words on endless repeat, running across his psyche like subtitles on a screen.
Sometimes he'd shake in revulsion, imagining the backward, drug-addicted, gun-toting barbarians, their flabby asses mushrooming over their seats, their greasy fingers, their fingers the size of sausages, their fat stupid fingers stabbing away at their phones. The dogs! The stinky, sloppy, disease-ridden filth in their ugly cities, with their crumbling infrastructure and their collapsing buildings! The corrupt capitalist, democratic, reactionary scum!
Nevertheless, he would not be deterred. He would insist on carrying on in the struggle! While his roommates were playing computer games, lying flat, laughing at their own farts, Lijian was online praising his Motherland!
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer And while most of his roommates had uncles, relatives in the Party, plenty of connections, Lijian knew that he did not. Lijian knew that if he were to rise through the Communist Party, it must be according to his own efforts. If he were to collect enough money to buy the suitable house and the car he'd need to attract a wife, he'd need to strive. If he were to collect enough funds to pay a dowry, pay for a wedding, pay for three children, pay for the care of his elderly parents, he'd need to fight. He knew he'd need to struggle to make his mark, impress his superiors, and gain his face. And this, this on his family's honor, he would! He would!
He was a man on a mission! He pictured himself as an online warrior, like a digital version of his favorite film, Wolf Warrior. That was him. He was a wolf warrior. He was shooting down naysayers! His words deadlier than a virus from Fort Detrick!
His words sharper than a guillotine!
He pictured using this as a steppingstone. Eventually, he'd rise through the ranks of the party. He'd marry a girl as pretty as Dou Dou. A girl as pretty as her, but a girl more to his liking. A girl who'd stay home, taking care of their children, their home, and his aging parents.
This was his Chinese Dream. One day he'd realize it. One day, he'd be like Wang Yi.
He'd be speaking at the UN. He'd be meeting with foreign leaders, advancing China's interests.
One day, Lijian would realize the Chinese Dream! He would! He would! This he knew more than anything else!!!!
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer
FAN BING BING SUCKS OFF THE BOOGEYMAN
As I click to download Lost in Beijing, I hear a bitch whisper, “The opacity of the system...” Sitting up in my hospital bed, I shift my gaze, see that the ward’s corridors are empty, save for a nursebot beeping down the hallway.
Terror swarms my mind, and I get sudden chills as if an ice cube is sliding down my spine. My skin starts crawling as I sense wild tigers congregating, the animals readying to run roughshod through the hospital, crash through the maternity ward’s doors. Fucking eat babies alive.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer I suck in a series of deep, healing breaths. Then I steady myself and swipe to watch an instructional video about how to survive a tiger attack. Covering my phone’s screen are intrusive ads for books concerning “Xi Jinping Thought.” Then I receive a text from an unknown number, saying to “go kick rocks.” My phone then becomes a big sticky bar of chocolate melting in my hands.
I knew what to do.
I rip off my gown and IVs, wires, causing a prolonged beep. Then I lift out of the hospital bed, assume a crane kick pose, and with gusto I shriek, pivot, and jump kick the air. Then I teleport to a pastoral landscape. On an infinite gravel road. I’m in a tiger print pressure suit and running on all fours under a blazing sun. The rocky ground is scorching, hissing under me. It’s like I’m running on hot coals. The sun’s charring my helmet. A river rushes nearby.
A clear glass-windowed slaughterhouse pushes up from the ground, jutting tall as a mountain before me. In It, I see workers in space suits hacking at carcasses and assembly lines of boars and tigers being felled one by one. The slaughterhouse smells of livestock and the muddy grounds ringing it are sloppy, wet…. I rise to enter…
I hear glass shattering. Through an exploding cloud of debris comes a clown car, the size of a Smart car, crashing down from the second storey of the slaughterhouse. The clown car blaps down to the muck before me. Its tinny engine dying with a cough. Swarms of doctors, all in white lab coats, stream from the clown car’s doors, climb from its trunk and out from under its hood.
The doctors’ faces are severe. Furious. The doctors’ faces crumpled and full of deeply etched lines. The doctors’ saggy faces rising and falling as they form a circle around me and start chanting the name of the fallen movie star “Fan Bing Bing.”
Each of the doctors is lighting, smoking cigarettes. The doctors’ circle moving as closely as possible without forming a mass. Behind the doctors appears a flickering hologram that reads: “Hot Water”
Then I see why the doctors are chanting Fan Bing Bing’s name. The disgraced movie star appears in a halo of gold, descending from the clear blue sky like a
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer fallen angel. Her gorgeous face is halved by a toothy, beaming smile and her teeth are straight and ivory as piano keys.
Flanking Fan Bing Bing is a battalion of dancing grandmas, falling from the sky, about 50 of them, in tiger print pajamas.
Fan Bing Bing is in frilly black lace lingerie. A nimbus of long, frizzy, jet-black hair frames her deep black eyes, and her eyes shimmer, are resplendently aglitter, shadowed in gold, sparkling heavenly in the hot sun. Landing softly, she stands tall on all ten toes, firm in the muck, and turns her sweet smile toward me as she shines with a celestial, eternal joy.
But I sense pain in Bing Bing’s popping eyes. They are eyes of agony. And I marvel at the curl, the set of Fan Bing Bing’s cherry lips that remain stretched to smile.
“In a land where the government outlaws God, Google, crypto, witchcraft and sorcery, what’s left to lose?” Fan Bing Bing inquires, lifting her plucked, crescent-shaped eyebrows, and behind her is a wild-eyed doctor with a leather whip, the doctor chasing after and lashing a dancing grandma.
Fan Bing Bing nods, then gigantic, pillar-sized cigarettes shoot up from the earth, like stalagmites, and form a Stonehenge-like circle around the doctors’ circle.
Another doctor crawls up from the muddy ground, like a corpse escaping the grave. The doctor with broken fingernails, a long, greasy black ponytail, and unsightly patches of facial hair, almost like a leper. The doctor lurching in a threadbare, dirty lab coat. The doctor raising his gnarled hand, holding up and thrusting forward a tattered copy of Xi Jinping Thought. The book appearing smeared with spackles of shit.
Then more doctors trudge forth, break the circle, jump up and down. Bing Bing’s face thickens to a scowl as many of the jumping doctors sink and disappear into the muck.
Fan Bing Bing’s cherry lips stretch into an even bigger smile and she chortles, “the hidey hole of both propaganda and effective altruism.”
My mind blazing, Fan Bing Bing pours more poison in my ears. Tells me telepathically that she knows these doctors are compromised. The doctors’ brains are full of bugs. Their beds full of bugs. Bugs crawling into the doctors’ ears, noses.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer Bugs in the buttocks. But Fan Bing Bing’s been setting bug traps, practicing a Parthian Shot.
The doctors are joined by the dancing grandmas and they form a tight circle around me and Fan Bing Bing. Start to clap. Chant. The grannies shouting Cultural Revolution slogans. The grandmas’, doctors’ eyes red as traffic lights. Then they sweat profusely. Sheens of perspiration, sweat spreading, lines of liquid wetting their lab coats, tiger print pajamas.
Fan Bing Bing hears and knows. The dancing grandmas. The doctors. Their blotched faces, tremulous cheeks. Their ugliest deeds and dreams. The sunshine and darkness intertwined, locked in their heads, tangling in their souls.
Bing Bing knows high rises, living on balconies. Barbecuing civet cats on a hibachi grill. Buying a new Bugatti just to set it on fire… Burning paper money and paper iPhones… Black-tooth doctors on made-up holidays, atop weird buildings, emptying buckets of piss and shit on square-dancing grandmas… Belt and Road debt trap diplomacy…
Fan Bing Bing knows…
Bing Bing knows doctors, like cadres, speak in acronyms and long yawns. Yes, Bing Bing detests the doctors’ handwriting, the sound of their karaoke, but is awash, adrift in their oceans of knowledge. After all, she too exists in a lingering mist.
Today’s Fan Bing Bing no longer exists only at glittering, curvilinear angles.
The grandmas’ primal screams, the doctors’ claps reach a thundering applause and drown out the tigers’ roars, boars’ groans and incessant death clangs of the slaughterhouse.
Bing Bing seizes up. Her cheeks flush, her forehead reddens. Her eyes are red-rimmed. Her heart fluttering like a vulture’s wings. Her breasts heave. Her bony knees tatter. Her whole soul possessed by the retired Red Guards’ gut-wrenching cries, the doctors’ applause. Shedding distorted tears, Fan Bing Bing begins to melt like a candle.
The doctors’ skins shift to silver, blue, and the applause hushes, as Fan Bing Bing and then the grandmas dissolve into clear puddles of gasoline in the muck. The slaughterhouse beginning to stink like a gas station.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer Then the doctors, like a Greek chorus, warn of Chairman Xi Jinping’s successor.
The successor, the heir to the Dragon Throne will be a King, they lament. A mighty King to be reckoned with. A King like a God. A sixty-five-foot-tall Chairman to be feared, loathed.
My mind working into overdrive, I jump into the air, ascending like a basketball player readying to dunk. I’m flying away as the slaughterhouse bursts into a ball of fire and the doctors are kicking, punching, tipping over the stalagmite cigarettes, the stalagmites falling faster than dominoes. Then I see the doctors, big as ants, igniting into phosphorescent flames like the lit gas burners of a stovetop.
Further on I fly, the hot day melting into a dank, sweltering evening, and I’m soon soaring into a more remote darkness, furthering into a windy, moonless night.
Then I see red dots in the distance, like fireflies in the dark.
A metropolis on the horizon is spreading out before me. Its downtown skyline looming through a line of haze; its skyscrapers flashing like lights under ice.
Infinite rows of neon-lit towers blinking through the hazy expanse.
A booming, computerized bitch voice suddenly speaks from the sky. “Blood on the hands that’ll never wash off… Jeremiads in the Global Times are just waxing whimsical... The opacity of the system is intentional… Everyone on Weibo knows…”
The computerized voice then disappears, is swallowed into the smoggy night.
Then an immense, funneling cloud from a nearby smokestack practically blindfolds me, leaving me unseeing.
I dip, descend to street level, where I again encounter Fan Bing Bing.
“Crucify! Crucify the cunt!” cries Bing Bing. Fan Bing Bing, true to her words, is crucifying a dead bat to a shuttered SARS2 testing booth. Bing Bing, ever the Impaler, hammering the creature’s tiny skull with the tip of a high-heel shoe and a golden nine-inch nail.
Bing Bing grins. Her head twisting, like an owl, to a 180-degree angle. Bing Bing putting her face parallel to her back. Then she makes eye contact with me and says, plainly, “Crucifixion breaks the spirit of even the darkest flowers.”
Her voice lacks any intentional callousness, and through this, a passcode cracks.
“Doomsday prepping Mojiang for more crucifixions, I see…” I reply, ready to skulk off to the shadows. Then I skip my way down an empty side street. Only a robot street cleaner is small in the distance. Saliva starts pooling in my mouth as I smell woodsmoke and chestnuts roasting.
“Mojiang is where the future King of China went to confer with astrology. Where he ate tiger penis hot dogs and drank bat blood. There, Bing Bing can manufacture astrolabes. Practice nighttime passages. Hatch schemes to enhance the opacity of the system, prep for clandestine asset seizures. Get her good name back,” I hear a bitch whisper.
“Fan Bing Bing might have been tattling on dissidents, greeting government guys with handjobs instead of handshakes. And maybe she was hiding wild boars in the janitor closets of the Jade Buddha Temple. But she swears she won’t ever again be taken down a peg, not simply due to tax fraud. And she’ll be nothing like the pangolin breeders… Spiders that eat each other in a jar…”
But nothing could exactly augur what Fan Bing Bing would encounter in Mojiang, a bitch could surmise. Up until her demise, on account of a highly public tax fraud ordeal, Bing Bing had lived a successful life and had never seen so many ants in a maze. The masses she knew were unknowing. Only the occasional kinesis. Only hearty laughs and butt slaps…. But only Fan Bing Bing’s blood in the petri dish could truly enhance the system’s opacity…
“Follow the money!” I bellow, my pressure suit’s boots still blackened with muck.
Then I dash, running angrily as a rugby player. Then I halt to practice the animal attack video’s defensive maneuvers, practice kicking away a wild tiger. But instead I knock over a curbside card game, enraging a pack of pot-bellied, flat-topped, shirtless middle-aged Chinese men in jorts.
The men are agog, scream bloody murder, and chase me for a block or two before running out of breath. The men hacking, spitting, and wheezing, and their bombastic words, caustic shouts, fade into the sticky night like plumes of cigarette smoke lifting into the sky.
“Medusa, Peng Shuai in my thoughts and my prayers,” I mutter through clenched teeth, dash down a side street. Then I stumble unto a garbage dump fronting a bay. The bay’s waters curiously pinkish, practically the color of a dog’s belly.
There, I set sail in a garbage can full of freshly cut body parts, fashioning Fan Bing Bing’s most elegant evening dress as a sail. Then I plow into a harnessed fog, rowing the boat with a severed arm.
A bitch whispers, “I’d have more than imagined Bing Bing to be a maiden truckling to social harmony.”
“But that was back before, pre-SARS2… Before the backdoor deals with barbarians and the collection of wild boars. Before Bing Bing was known to run on all fours by the Bund… Fucking police, polite society had never seen a movie star licking and biting the proletariat and bourgeois alike…”
Bing Bing is again with me. Riding shotgun in our garbage can junker.
“Success was red. It was the Chinese Dream. A chimerical, secondhand concept.
We had such prosaic thoughts. We were ambulatory, plodding, and answering signs,” I shriek at Bing Bing, who remains a hand hiding a face.
“You climbed the wall, Bing Bing. Your camera phone had circular eyes, bunched balls of knowing. But who is watching YOU through that phone camera? Who is listening to you, through your phone’s holes? Was it really the PSB? Or was it Mark Zuckerberg, all along, dressed like a raccoon? Your internet, your phone’s lights speak another language,” I continue, still failing to register even an inkling, let alone a wave of emotion.
“But the messages…” Bing Bing finally retorts, and she slaps herself in the face three times. Right hand to left cheek.
“The messages required recondite signals, paronomasia, and ellipses lingering.
The messages were littered with loaded questions, strawman social justice and interpolated food photos.” I answer. Bing Bing’s eyes retain a childish limpidity, her bloody lips redder than wine.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer Bing Bing harumphs, averts my gaze and mutters something about, “WeChat might as well be ransomware… It’s intentional…” and then keeps silent.
We dock our garbage can junker at an archipelago made of hard, crunchy plastic.
A large sign hanging from a fake palm tree reads, “No Commiserating Anywhere on the Archipelago.”
“Noted,” I concur, helping Bing Bing out of the garbage can.
Bing Bing has shed her bra and panties due to new laws in China governing women modeling lingerie. Her nude, lean, hourglass form is flawless. Not a wrinkle, tube of fat, cellulite patch or any imperfection in sight.
Noticing my ogling, Bing Bing clucks and her eyeballs turn black as a tar road.
“Perfection is an imperfection,” Bing Bing chuckles and feints a crane kick.
We run up the promontory of the archipelago, arriving at a jungle. The swampy air stinks like burning plastic, and the bay’s breezes freshen and bite, turn hot as an oven. Then the sky darkens deeper as thunderheads rumble in. The thunderclouds full of silvery vapors shining like freshly cut jewels.
“Fucking monsoon season,” I grumble.
A stuffed, dead elephant at the entrance of the sweat-dripping jungle had been spray-painted with the warning: “No Empaths Allowed in the Jungle.”
“Laissez faire,” Bing Bing retorts.
We’re met at the jungle’s entrance sign by a deathly pale eunuch in a red robe emblazoned with golden dragons. He’s tattooed to the ears and appears hairless as a dolphin. His bald head bright as a crystal ball. His hook-shaped eyes are translucent. They are eyes filled with souls and transmigrations. He begins to tell us of blood magic, superstitions, rumors, luck and Xi Jinping Thought. Such an approach is emblematic of the jungle’s eunuch policy.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer To Bing Bing it’s predictable as a simulation. Hack, spit, smile. Smile and bitch dance. Rinse and repeat.
Up to 6 times per day. Morning readings. Reciting Xi Jinping Thought. Squat, shit on the floor, blame all ills on Western Imperialism…
“Euphonic grunts, invisible anthills… shapes and sizes, sweet tastes and fragrant smells. Salt and soap. Caramel and dirt. Opium, gunpowder, fentanyl and fireworks. Rinse and repeat,” and I understand an unusual symmetry in the eunuch’s eyes.
The eunuch finds from Fan Bing Bing that Xi Jinping’s successor has yet to be chosen and that the Chairman had been cloned and had crafted his own archipelago.
“Artificial islands in the South China Sea were just the start…”
The Chairman and his bloated, constipation face, his laughing to burn. His largesse joking the core. “It’s a gas!” screams the eunuch.
The eunuch slashes the sky with a “woot, woot!” and tells us the Chairman probably sent a flying panda head to follow us from above, “like TikTok, the stars or the moon.”
“Chairman knows best,” quips Bing Bing to the eunuch. “What we thought was a star peeking through that sloppy sky could actually be the Chairman’s flying panda head.”
“After all, a flying panda head is harder to spot than any spy balloon.”
“And quieter than dissidents, or the bitch whisperer.”
We then see there’s a gaping hole in Bing Bing’s chest, right where her left tit used to be. But before I can ask anything, Bing Bing is lifting into the air and jetting off like Iron Man. Bing Bing vanishing fast, a funnel of fumes shooting from her ass, forming into a glittery chemtrail. Bing Bing an itty bitty speck in the night sky.
“Tits, dicks, chips, ships and a tech war…”
“The smart money is always on tits…”
Bing Bing has anger, Baidu, The Great Firewall and hurricane lights to guide her.
Whenever she’d escape her cave, she’d drink bat blood mixed with baijiu, run on all fours through the countryside. Or she’d hit the jungle. Or Shanghai. Where she’d walk along the Bund for hours, aimlessly, in meditation. Bing Bing watching light beam off skyscrapers... Or Bing Bing could play urban golf, in Pudong, with a severed arm and a dead cockroach... Or go for jungle cricket, watching stars aglitter in the trees, swatting mosquitoes with camera sticks... Or she’d dress like a whore, prostrate at the Jade Buddha Temple, imploring the Chairman not to apply tax laws, to overlook currency violations, and to truly enhance the system’s opacity…
Bing Bing reappears, rockets from out of the bay, like a submarine. Then she hovers above the pinkish water’s surface, shouts, “The opacity of the system is WHAT?”
“Intentional!” I rejoin, shouting with the intensity of a soldier. Then the sky opens.
A deluge dropping from the heavens, fat raindrops of pure gasoline spattering the jungle’s marshy ground.
“Grandpa Mao in the shower…” the eunuch spasms, bellows. His face a mask of fear. His stocky body, his wealth belly convulsing as his fingers and toes shapeshift into lit cigarettes.
Then the archipelago, jungle shake, boom, and burst into a blaze of flames...
Bing Bing’s left tit grows back, faster than microwave popcorn, and she scoffs, leaves the eunuch for dead. But me and her teleport. Then run the streets of Shanghai, blood dripping from her painted, Freddy Krueger fingernails.
“Blood on the hands that’ll never wash off…” Bing Bing chortles.
As we run under the neon lights of Nanjing Road, Bing Bing slashes throats and gouges the eyes of cripples, beggars, tea touts and random scammers. Then she
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer stops and stabs a cigarette-smoking traffic cop. Gouges the fucker’s eyeballs. But she goes unseen as a ghost due to her invisibility. After all, she is a fallen star. Fan Bing Bing fucking free as oxygen!
Bing Bing brings me to a public bathroom. “Let’s meet the bitch whisperer,”
laughs Bing Bing. Her laughs hit my ears like cleansing immolations, and she cuts a bloody smile into her lips while staying invisible.
“Four visits of New Year’s Past. Ghosts. Pigs, Snakes and an Ox. A Rat... Pandora’s Box… Everyone on Weibo knows the opacity of the system,” utters Bing Bing, her lovely head thrown back, her black hair a blur, her cherry lips lip-syncing plans to recreate the MH370 disappearance.
That was it, she knows. She knows the burn. The tax on Wealth. The preparations for the tech war. The hoarding of minerals and blood, the mine shafts. The moles in Taiwan. Fan Bing Bing throws up honey and circles paper plane crashes. She has inflamed, scatterbrain, paper-fuselage bitch dreams. SHE knows. Fan Bing Bing knows. It is written in her eyes. She’s told of investments, bitch dance hoaxes, population control, kindergarten stabbing sprees, contaminated milk products and family planning. It is all glowered, compendious in her deep eyes, her eyes black and slick as oil.
Cupping her hands around her mouth, she shouts, “Return. Return to Bing Bing!
Arise! Make your presence known!!!!”
Xiao Gege crawls up from out of the drain of a squat toilet. He emerges rambling, confesses to enjoying diarrhea. And practicing sodomy with his sister. But never full-on sex. Everyone on Weibo knows he lives in the cheapest real estate in Shanghai. In a dookie booth. In a public bathroom. Next to the septic tank.
Xiao Gege wears women’s hanfu and dyes his hair neon green. Everyone on Weibo knows his sister lets him out, like a geek in a freakshow, so he can perform his bitch dance. And only on Tuesdays does he release and chase after one or two
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer of Bing Bing’s wild boars. Xiao Gege climbing façades of commercial buildings, running on all fours through Pudong in reckless pursuit.
“Bitch clans of the future. Tarot cards and face licks. Bitches handcuffed on the news. Call center bitch gangs at the Wuhan Institute of Virology!”
Bing Bing gasps. Her brother’s unpatriotic, unharmonious words stealing through her with the force of an accusation.
Xiao Gege screams gibberish at the bathroom floor. It’s smeared with shit. He’d been reaching into toilets and writing Xi Jinping Thought in feces again. Everyone on Weibo knows.
“Smile, remember the kneeling bitches,” shrieks Xiao Gege, blood rising to his face. He then hums, slaps and drums the national anthem on his sister’s butt.
Conjoined twin doctors, in a wide white lab coat, ride into the bathroom on a wild boar. The conjoined twin doctors smoking cigarettes and demanding a blowjob and a truth slap by Bing Bing. Bing Bing happily obliges, diamonds glinting in her eyes.
“The hacked cameras. The hacked cameras! 7-year bitch! A jokey joke! Just a jokey joke on a blog!” Xiao Gege guffaws.
“Reeducation,” retorts Bing Bing, nonchalant, as she drops to her knees, unzips each conjoined twin’s slacks, fishes out their identical hard, hook-shaped penises.
Xiao Gege, the geek runs circles around us. The geek giggling while watching his sister suck off, gulp, swallow each doctor’s cum. Bing Bing slurps, smiles and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand after each load.
Then Bing Bing lifts up from her knees and open-hand smacks both twins in the forehead, shapeshifting the doctors’ conjoined body into a small camera, about the size of a gecko lizard.
Bing Bing crouches, scoops up the camera, rises and inspects it. Wrinkles her nose.
Throws the cam to the bathroom floor. Stomps on it as if it were a bug. All this with her tiny barefoot.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer
“Smashing the camera is ending its lies,” shrieks Xiao Gege, the geek jumping like a caged monkey.
Laughing, Bing Bing collects the camera’s pieces, tosses them into a squat toilet.
Then her left arm spins like a helicopter propellor, and she claws at her brother’s forehead, carves “清楚.” Then her brother bitch dances, seemingly entranced by his wound, his blood’s warmth.
“The opacity of the system is intentional,” declares Bing Bing as she kneels before me.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer NIGHT OUT IN WUHAN
一
It was five of us. Expat English teachers from a high school on the outskirts of Wuhan.
Our school being in a remote location, we were getting stir-crazy and needed a shot of bright lights, big city nightlife.
We met up around 8 in the evening outside our school’s front gate and piled into a beat-up gray Renault van; a “chicken van” as it’s often dubbed in China Expat nomenclature.
The chicken van made regular runs from our school to the Wuhan city center and was rickety and squeaked, creaked, bumped and thumped along as our driver, a middle-aged local, with minimal teeth and a scraggly flattop, grunted, growled and honked at everything moving as we sped by abandoned Soviet style apartment blocks, vacant factories, and an active chemical plant, its storage tanks glowing gold; its smokestacks spewing steady streams of milky exhaust into the tar of night.
The traffic flow, chaotic beeping, vehicular madness multiplied like swarms of bees and hornets as we neared the neon night of the city center.
Hard cyberpunk blasted from the van’s distorted dashboard speakers, and during the journey we debated prurient topics, like who you’d rather fuck: a morbidly obese fempat or a smoking hot, post-op Thai ladyboy.
(The ladyboy won, hands down.)
We cut onward into the municipality’s veins, by the black river, and saw shiny skyscrapers flanked by varying architectures of iron, and cruel, rectangular, brightly lit buildings backdropped in smog.
The streets were heavily peopled. Bikes, buses, cars, walkers, vendors; a myriad of human smells, hives of activity.
Here was the commerce, life and leisure of an economic colossus, a church of capitalism, an emerging superpower…
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer Our Captain was a China vet, a grizzled Welshman, a muscular, crewcut, cleft-chinned former SAS.
The wild-eyed savage in his starched and creased Iron Maiden T-shirt, camouflage cargo shorts- his usual attire, despite the damp, 7 something Celsius winter weather…
The Welshman was showing off the green dragon tattoo on his upper right arm to our driver’s nodding approval.
The Welshman’s glaucous eyes, w/their drooping lids, crow’s feet, and his sneaky wry smile and fangled set of choppers told of time, the Commonwealth and too many sweets, and the cheeky, sprite geezer spit on the street and sparked a smoke as we disembarked from the van.
Wuhan’s downtown air was different, slightly sulfuric, and its temperature felt a tad warmer than that at our school’s sprawling hillside campus.
“You’re 62, mate?” queried Piggy, the chubby young Londoner aside the Welshman.
“Never underestimate the importance of a good night’s sleep and a proper shave…” the Welshman retorted, ejecting twin chutes of smoke through the flared nostrils of his long nose and nodding us in the direction of a nearby bar.
A muck-faced beggar in grayish rags, missing both legs, crawled by us on his forearms, prostrating along the street.
He beseeched us in a local dialect none of us could understand, but linguistic barriers couldn’t obfuscate his angle, and he clutched a tattered KFC coffee cup with a ratty, crudely affixed QR code for donations…
Piggy winced. Being new to China, and Asia, I could see it affected him. The only thing that affected the rest of us was olfactory. Fucker smelled like the floor of an abattoir.
“In China, the beggars are controlled by the triads. It’s a racket. Probably got his legs cut off for not paying off gambling debts. And now his wife’s a hooker, too, I bet. Pun intended.” The Welshman observed, seemingly attempting to calm Piggy, whapping the Pigger a playful elbow to his Buddha belly.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer Most China expats, after enough time in the PRC, had a similar gallows sense of humor as the Welshman…
“What, so since he’s got no legs he can’t slap on deodorant? He’s still got arms,”
chimed in American Randy, nose hair Randy, the chinless, the doomsday prepper, the flat-earther, the near midget with a walrus mustache, always in Adidas tracksuits, the raging asshole who could never put down his phone.
“I doubt deodorant’s the biggest of his worries…” I assured, testily, wanting a beer already.
二
We entered the bar through the baroque, towering, 3-meter-high ovular pecan brown wood entry door and made into the mist and volume of the establishment.
The place was a behemoth square-shaped venue that had an ersatz Euro gestalt-assorted oak veneer plinths with faux marble statues of Greek gods, a celestial ceiling, off-white walls with crown moldings, caryatids and Odesa corner onlays, and an array of prismatic overhead lights in rainbow spectrums, lasers, and strobes over the proscenium in the far left of the main room where a Filipino band played.
Our crew soldiered up to the reverse L-shaped drink counter and waved over one of the bartenders, an early 20s, tall Chinese goddess in black knee-high platform boots, hip-hugger green sparkly short shorts (revealing delicious rear décolletage) and shiny silver halter top that showed off her taut midriff.
Her hair was dyed, tied into Harley Quinn pigtails, and I wondered if she was an aspiring model or at least a luxury car show girl…
We complimented Harley on her winning of the genetic lottery, and she stoically tapped at her tablet while we ordered a bevy of beers, strictly Corona, none of the local piss, and whiskey shots, Jack on the rocks.
Each of us swiped our phones to pay, and we collectively ogled Harley Qing’s shapely derriere as she slinked off…
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer We cut a path through the miasma of smoke, bar staff moving like missiles, rushing drink trays, and we dodged phone zombies, randomly arranged tables, and found a vacant booth in the corner, not far from a trio of pool tables.
Doomsday Randy was pointedly saying to Piggy: “It’s not that I’m homophobic!
I’m simply scared of gays. Like, an irrational fear, like I go to San Francisco or Dupont Circle and I’m thinking dudes are just gonna run up and buttfuck me, you know? I start to understand how women feel, you hear me?”
We scooted into the booth, eased into the pleather. A smiley young mushroom haircut waiter in a tacky tuxedo and oversized eyeglasses, arrived with our drinks and offered us a free plate of symmetrically laid slices of dark meats and cut fruits.
I sampled a strip of the meat and found it to have a bizarre, pungent, heavy taste.
Certainly not sapid.
Canadian Chad, in his black HIV sweatshirt and ripped up blue jeans, Chad the crazy long legged, lanky, gangly fuck, Chad we call the slender man, examined the meat with squinting, sapient eyes, and shrieked and gagged. Upper lip curled, prognathous jaw extended, he offered an unusual appraisal.
“Bro, that’s fucking dog! That’s fucking dog, bro! You ate dog! I know that smell from anywhere. They ate that shit in Korea. Only kimchi is…”
I couldn’t hear the last of his words because the music was too loud, but I could easily detect his distaste, and he made fake puking gestures and burst into sardonic fits of laughter, pointing and snapping smartphone photos of my snarled mien.
“Can’t imagine how much melamine is in that dogmeat. Your kidneys are fucked.
You won’t have them harvested, probably, so that’s a win…” Randy conjectured, snarling and yelling over the table, before he grabbed a slice of purple dragon fruit and began chewing it with his mouth open.
“Yerr… Only live once. Fuck Cujo,” I yelled back, and guzzled my Jack on the rocks to ablute my mouth of the taste and guilt.
Piggy was sweating, staring, his mouth agape, the pudgy punter practically mesmerized by the skimpy bikini dancer, a light-skin lovely with the big bulging Fan Bing Bing eyes of a green tea bitch.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer The vixen worked the pole on a birdcage-like podium opposite the bar, gyrating, thrusting her feminine geometry to the hum, bumps of the beat. Her lithe little body shaking in hypnotizingly lusty motions; her lissome movements full of gymnastic aerial V leg splits and bad bitch twerks.
“Welcome to Communism!” Chad the Slender barked at Piggy, slapping on the Pigster’s back in a congratulatory gusto.
“Fuck Communism!” Welshman bellowed, raising his shot glass and we clinked cheers and guzzled what I hoped to be genuine whiskey. It was genuinely smoky, peaty, if nothing else, and rushed into my bloodstream with rapidity…
三
Aside from the dancer, the bar was pretty pathetic, I gathered, scouting around.
Having been in Shanghai before and partied in bitching bars and clubs, this place was a joke. Felt like a simulacrum. There were hardly any ladies, other than a few scantily clad skeezers, sitting suspiciously alone at the bar.
The Welshman, noticing me checking them out, leaned over and whisper-screamed into my ear over the Filipinos’ blaring, shitty acoustic rendition of Taylor Swift’s “Bad Blood…”
“See that one over there, in the red? Those fishnets, the rack, the makeup like a geisha? My buddy working in town, he picked her up, sent me a photo. 1000 RMB
for the night. Said she was a screamer. Called her Moaning Lisa…”
“Said she was cock-eyed, though, so he fucked her doggystyle.”
“Probably why she’s wearing those shades.”
“Strabismus.”
“Whatever…”
“If all else fails, we head to a massage place. Get wanked off, have a dip in the jacuzzi. Not a bad way to finish the evening, I reckon,” the Welshman affirmed, chair-danced and sparked another smoke…
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer Our mission was twofold: We’d come for fun. And for cunt.
Looking around, though, there wasn’t much pussy to be found, at least of the free will variety. Very few debutantes here…
The bar was hazy thick in clumps of cigarette smoke and largely populated by small groups of local dudes drinking 3% alcohol beer, cradling their phones; many playing a drinking game that involved shaking a cup full of dice.
“All right, lads, let’s find fanny!” hollered the Welshman at the top of his lungs. He then guzzled the remainder of his beer, and we split into two squads, a team of two and a team of three.
The Welshman slid out of the booth, rose up and continued: “Don’t let any of the local blokes cajole you into drinking too many. It gives them face, like, ‘Hey, I have a white friend!’
“Have a quick shot or two, on them, and then break out. But don’t be daft and do a Wendell Brown.”
Deploying, weaving about the floor, the Welshman and I happened upon a table of non-hooker looking lovelies in short skirts. We locked onto our targets and approached.
They were probably half our age and would never talk to us in Britain or America-unless we were rich. But here, in Asia, we had a fighting chance, asserted the Welshman, saying how girls like that in the UK wouldn’t even spit on him.
“I’d lick up the water from off the floor of her shower.” I was saying as we neared the pussy, my face twitching with lust.
I’d instantly been enamored by the pussy at 11 o’clock, the shoulder length hair brunette, with the resting bitch face and those hyperborean cheekbones; the gorgeous maiden, coyly crossing her shapely satin pantyhose wrapped legs, staring down at her phone, twirling her wavy hair with her fingers.
Fuck, she looked like a total bitch, which made me want her even more, and I wondered what color panties she might be wearing up under that super-skanky microscopic skirt…
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer But, closing in, a duo of chunky lizard-face local dudes cut off our path, smiling and patting us on the back, offering us shots, likely employing a common Asian continent cock-blocking tactic.
We reluctantly accepted, following their popped-up polo shirt collars to an adjacent table, wanting not to have a Wendell Brown.
After a shot, and pretending we didn’t speak Chinese, and them speaking minimal English, we shook their hands, politely stepped off, and disappeared into the bar’s stratosphere of smoke and were disappointed to find the pussy had vanished.
Even worse was that a pair of local police floated forth, menacingly, like ghouls, in front of us.
四
One of the cops was pointing his smartphone, taking pictures of us. The other greeted us in English.
“We must see your passports, please,” the English speaker, the younger, taller of the pair spoke, mechanically, in a British-inflected Chinese accent.
The older, shorter copper, the one wielding the phone, examined our passports, visa pages, and snapped smartphone pics of them with splenetic fervor.
We had valid passports, visas, so it wasn’t an issue. However, what happened next was unexpected, certainly at this bar.
The English-speaking cop, produced two small urine specimen cups from his coat pocket, handed them to us.
“Please provide urine samples. We check for illegal contraband,” said the young cop, in a coldly formal cadence.
Being a tad buzzed, I reached for my fly, was about to whip out my dick and piss right there. But the cops winced, and the English speaker waved me off, forming an X with his arms, and pleaded: “No! No! No! We take you to WC!”
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer In the bathroom, Piggy, Randy and Chad were already there, looking something between pissed off and confused.
Drug tests at expat bars are common these days, in Xi Jinping’s China, but they aren’t too frequent in predominantly Chinese bars...
Chad was stuttering, trying Fabian tactics, something about a kidney issue, his blue eyes getting watery.
But his protesting was otiose. The coppers were stolid, unwavering, and ushered us one at a time into a stall and watched us each stand over a shit-splattered squat toilet and piss into their cups of truth.
“Please provide…” politely requested the younger copper, guiding me into the dookie booth, and when I broke out my little brother, he stared straight at it, smiled licentiously as my silver piss filled the cup.
A gaggle of other cops showed up soon after, all of them donning facemasks...
One of the newcomer cops, wearing blue latex gloves, disappeared with our warm, freshly bubbling piss while the English-speaking cop made small talk with us, mostly about basketball, then about Kobe, and who we blamed for the helicopter crash.
A few minutes later we were released. All of us, except Canadian Chad, the slender man, who was asked to “come to station.”
We didn’t ask why.
Leaving the WC, I saw the educator, towering above the police, cowering like a wounded giraffe, breaking into tears as the coppers encircled him.
The vibe at the bar completely killed, we decided to boogie, and head to the massage parlor early.
五
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer The spa was a quick five-minute walk away, and on the way there, we spotted an apartment building, its residents emptying, panicked, many in pajamas, piling into cars out front, tires screeching as they tore off hastily.
“Might be another jumper.”
“Or a building fire.”
“Another maid with a flamethrower, trying to juice the insurance cash to pay off her gambling debts.” Randy chimed in, rambling.
Randy’d taken a fancy to the maid in Hangzhou, had written her in jail, tried to visit her before she was executed via firing squad...
Next to the spa was a dead body, a migrant worker, from the looks of him. You’d see that in the city center, here and there. Dead bodies lying around before they eventually got scooped up.
An aerial drone buzzed overhead, right by us, speakers on it screaming something in Chinese, but it flew too fast and was too garbled to comprehend...
The spa had Grecian pillars in the doorway and flashing red lights, floral patterns on the awning, and the signage above had the spa’s regal name, emblem. A short red-carpet was unfurled on the sidewalk, leading inside, like a hairy tongue.
I’d been there once or twice. It was a colossal place, with a locker room, showers, a sauna, steam room, jacuzzi and small swimming pool on the first floor; the second floor a cavernous lounge area with puffy, comfy leather kick-back chairs, each having its own wraparound TV, plus a decent buffet restaurant, and a third floor filled with private massage rooms, VIP suites.
Many travelers to Wuhan stay the night there, instead of a hotel…
We entered the lobby. The floors were beige, fake marble, and a Frenchy style crystal chandelier dangled from the ceiling; red ribbons hung all over the walls, and a 3-meter-high, 2-meter-wide fish tank with various varieties of goldfish swimming about was situated near the entryway.
A poster with a list of services and prices hung above the sales counter, where we were greeted by a buxom, nubile attendant in a resplendent red flowing evening dress, who booked us in and scanned our Alipay payments with a vulpine smile.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer Piggy, Welsh, Randy were escorted to the elevator, up to the sauna by a leggy raven-haired beauty in a tight-fitting gold one-piece miniskirt bearing the spa’s escutcheon, and Piggy, right behind her, stared directly at her tight ass, slobbering and following it to the elevator like a syzygy.
Another golden one-piece miniskirt beauty, even hotter, this one practically all leg, led me, by myself, to another room, down a separate corridor, on the ground floor...
Legs asked me, in English, if I was a Jew.
“No, I’m Italian-American, but people sometimes think I’m Jewish because of my big nose. My ancestors are from Italy, Milan, came to America years ago.”
“I like Jew,” she said, chuckling, “so clever. Too bad you not Jew.”
“Anyone can convert, I guess. Even you. You could be a Jew. A Chinese Jew. You’d be set on Christmas,” I told her, but my joke flew over her pretty head, and her temperament cooled.
She brought me to a room that was like a hotel suite, waved me in and promptly disappeared. The room was spacious, with fancy light fixtures and had a king size bed, 55-inch flat screen TV mounted to the wall and a small fridge. The ceiling and walls were all mirrors.
A minute later another leggy, identical gold miniskirt gal stepped in. This one not half as pretty. Her head was abnormally large, and she had tiny opal eyes shaped like bent crescent moons.
However, her hourglass figure, her lower body, in particular – her hips, thighs and round ass- were most certainly enticing. Her nose and chest were both rather flat, though.
She spoke perfect English and told me her name was God.
“Would you like to sleep with me? 900 RMB,” God cooed, running her hands over her runway chest, working down to her ischium, cupping her childbearing hips and swaying slightly.
I’d rarely paid for sex and wasn’t going to pay her.
“No, that’s okay. I just want a massage, nothing more.”
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer God’s face contorted, first in surprise, then something that appeared hurt, then irate.
“You don’t think I’m beautiful?” she sniffed and coughed and crossed her arms, appearing as though she’d let loose a runnel of teary waterworks.
“No, you’re beautiful. Seriously, you’re great. It’s not you. It’s me. I only came for a massage. You’re very pretty, you really are.” I pleaded to her, trying to lift her spirits.
For a second I felt bad about not paying her, genuinely bad about it, but then I wondered why I honestly felt bad about not wanting to have sex with this prostitute, this “chicken woman,” this slapper…
God stomped off with an expression that was something between hurt and confused. Perhaps I was the first foreigner not to hire her “services…”
The imbibing I’d done at the bar suddenly kicked up a notch, the floor feeling uneven.
A handsome young Chinese man with a shaven head suddenly appeared like he’d walked through the wall.
Heavily tattooed, and a meathead, I worried he’d come to rough me up for hurting the hooker’s feelings, but he was chill and friendly and led me up to the sauna, and we chatted in Chinese about basketball.
“Kobe, numba wan!” he repeatedly exclaimed, in English, coughing and spitting on the floor as we walked down a tessellated hallway, and he showed me into the lungs of the locker room.
The locker room was humid and hot as an oven; floors were moist and hard.
Beads of sweat trickled down my lower back, and I peeled off my Boy jacket, was handed a key attached to a stretchy red plastic wristband…
六
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer I undressed, put my clothes in the locker, slapped on slippers and had a quick shower. Steamy water cascading over me, “Bitches Ain’t Shit” by YG started playing in my mind and I sung the words loudly.
I stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel over my waist, bumbling and stumbling in a dipsomaniacal duck-walk by the jacuzzi bath where I spotted Piggy and Welshman.
“What up, bloods?!” I yelled at them.
Neither replied, and they looked at me like they’d eaten a lemon.
I’m not black and neither are they, which is why I found it fun to call these vampire pale, crumpet eating, tea sipping, stiff-upper lip Brit fucks hip-hop slang like “bloods.”
Walking past them, I heard Welsh mutter something about, “septic…”
Everywhere, in the showers, stepping in and out of the sauna, pool, steam room, were Chinese men in vapors, birthday suits. Unkempt, hairy dicks, nuts wiggling and dangling, bare asses hanging out…
Most of them were like walking chimneys, voraciously smoking cigarettes, which, given their nudity, I couldn’t help but wonder where they kept the cancer sticks and how they managed to light them; most were coughing, crepitating loudly as they gathered about the premises, hacking up massive phlegm flams, spitting on the vanilla tiled floors.
I was handed the standard spa uniform (pajama-like shorts and a shirt) by a haggardly middle-aged male spa attendant, the guy’s voice sounding like he’d swallowed a chainsaw. I slipped out of my towel, into my duds, and noticed Chainsaw Voice peter-gazing.
Chainsaw Voice chuckled and quipped to another spa worker, a scowling, slightly older guy, saying something about how “just Africans are bigger…”
I wandered into the dimly lit lounge area and was met by another obligatory, young leggy lady attendant, standing dutifully, radiating in the caramel patina; this babe a busty nymphet crowned by a glittering bluish black, blond-highlighted curly mane that flowed like moonlit river currents to her slim waist.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer I gawked at her décolletage on full display, sympathizing with her breasts’
struggle, their fighting the seam of her xanadu blouse.
Tits asked if I’d like an oil massage.
It was tough to refuse, her inviting me and all.
“From you?” I asked her, and she coyly smiled, demurred and led me by my lonesome into an elevator which rocketed me to the third floor.
The elevator’s platinum doors whooshed and slid open to the image of a marble-skinned honey, her ceraceous, heavily whore-painted face showing strains of senescence.
Despite a somewhat high odometer, she was still sparkling in short-short amaranth shorts, and matching tank-top emblazoned with the spa’s rose-wrapped emblem.
MILF stood tall in super-high, silver heels and received me with a necromantic smile revealing rotten teeth, and I quickly noticed that her breath smelled like an unflushed toilet.
She checked the number on my wristband, and led me wordlessly, perfunctorily, her heels clicking and clacking into the trachea of the massage maze.
The hallways looked like Rothko paintings and were curvilinear bronchi, branches of rooms, each w/faux mahogany door, each door having I-shaped small windows, many of them occluded by white towels, and nearly every room alive with TV
sounds, stertorous breathing and coughs.
I was led into a dimly lit unoccupied room. It had hotel style accoutrements- a small bed with only a vanilla-colored top sheet, and a plastic red rose laid on its singular pillow.
A small bathroom was cut into the room’s lower left lobe, and a 45’ flatscreen TV
mounted to the umber wall faced the bed; under the TV was a creamy white minifridge.
An impressionist style oil painting of red roses hung in the right main of the room, atop twin carved wooden chairs and low table with a dirty ashtray. The room stank strongly of mosquito coil incense and cigarettes…
Manky Mouth MILF flicked on the TV and clanked off and out and another beauty entered the room, a younger, late 20ish, shorter girly; plumper, darker yellow skinned, the type many Asian dudes wouldn’t like- too much meat on the bones, I’d gander.
But for me, as a lecherous laowai, she was a keeper. Gorgeous. Shorty’s thick luscious, generous thighs and bigger than average Chinese bosom protruded proudly in her skintight one-piece black mini.
Her ebony eyes were huge, had arched serifs, and something like a golden aureole shone, lambently, atop her raven mane as she entered the doorway.
She was robotic at first, greeting me in formalities as she walked in, but seeing I was a foreigner, she was taken aback, literally stepping backwards, frozen for a second in shock, asking me in Chinese if I could speak Chinese, saying that she didn’t speak English.
“Sure,” I told her in Mandarin.
Relieved, she cracked a smile, and told me how she didn’t think any foreigners spoke Chinese.
“Why? Because we’re too stupid?” I inquired, mischievously twitching my eyebrows and sniggling.
“Yup, something like that. Chinese is very complicated. Even I don’t speak it well,”
she exclaimed, sniggling back, and I admired her probity.
She ordered me to disrobe, completely, and flip over onto my stomach, and I immediately complied with her commands.
I asked her name, and she said she only had a number.
“8…”
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer 8 slipped out of her black/pink stilettos, revealing her true height, and she climbed onto the bed, started working me over, rubbing my back in semicircular, palpating patterns.
Her touch was divine. Her fingers conducting electricity, her energy coursing, pulsating, afferently, washing over me like tides, illuminating me, and then setting my soul into an ocean of peace.
Her voice, too, was like music; her girly, baby-doll timbre and southern Chinese accent, totally lacking the sibilants, was so fucking cute.
We chitter-chattered, made sequacious small talk about the usual things Chinese wanna know, American food, (did we eat hamburgers for breakfast), how much money I made, (are we all rich like on TV), if I had a gun (yes, in America, everyone has a gun and someone shoots at you anytime you open the door or go outside so you better have a gun and shoot back, I jokingly assured her, and she slapped my shoulder for my cheek…)
Her touch was not only angelic, but it was strong, powered by her 55 KG
bodyweight, and she hit every pressure point in my back, dug into my thoracolumbar fascia like the pro she was.
Drifting southward, she cupped and squeezed my gluteus maximus, nurturing it.
But then, 8 whispered in my ear for me to lift up to my knees and assume a bent over, doggystyle sort of position, which she demonstrated next to me on the bed, my mouth watering as she pointed her big, circular, meaty globes towards the ceiling.
“Why?” I asked, thinking if anything I’d want her bending over like that.
And 8 demonstrated why, scooting up next to me, and slipping a surprise finger up into my ass.
“Ack!” I screamed and slapped her hand away. I hadn’t come for a rectal exam.
She laughed like my protestation was a risible remark.
“It’s good for the health, me touching up there,” 8 asserted, her expression turning sour. “Come on, let me do it!” she insisted, her face getting pouty.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer I guessed she enjoyed fingering dudes up the ass, and I guessed many dudes were into that finger in the butt shit. But I wasn’t.
Nothing against it, but, for me, I prefer putting things up others’ asses.
(Only things I like around, entering my ass are bum guns and tongues. I must admit to enjoying the rimming of my asshole via water or a spongy warm lick...) I flipped over, onto my back, and gazing down her shirt, at her twin peaks, I sprouted a stiffy.
“They’re big…” I muttered, mesmerized by her jiggly, pendulous cleavage.
“Wow, you’re big too! Foreigners really are larger…” she marveled, peering down at my tall, chubby, pulsating white cock that’d sprung up accusingly at her face.
I pointed down at her monkey and asked her if I could fuck her. She shook her head. I asked her if she’d suck my dick. She shook her head harder, made an X
motion with her arms and said in English: “NO, NO, NO!”
Disappointed, dispirited, I shrugged and told her to resume the massage. The night was turning out to be shit.
However, she lifted my mood by squirting rose hip oil into her right hand, and reaching down, grabbing hold of my johnson, and gently jerking, choking and pumping it.
With her free hand she tenderly touched over my balls and then caressed and tickled numbers from my pelvis, to my stomach, north to my pecs; 8 gracefully running her jagged acrylic nails over my skin, softly, so softly; playfully teasing my nipples, and the tension, sensation of her delicate touch gave me gooseflesh.
Gripping my dick, her hot, greasy hand felt like it was made of feathers. It gliding along my manhood made me tremble, turning my heartbeat tachycardiac.
What jerkoff technique she had… It was impeccable, her spiral motions, the pressure of her grip, her teasing the top of my shaft; it was masterful.
Who better to receive a hand job from than a masseuse?
Instinctively I ran my left hand over her creamy yellow thighs, which were smooth and velvety. I traced my hand up and felt on her bullet-shaped tits, pushed and
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer liberated them carefully from her pink pushup bra, freeing them out and over her neckline, and heard her sigh when they escaped into the air.
I sat up and took hold of her pointy, supple tits, sucking, nibbling and licking on 8’s silky golden flesh, tasting a tinge of her salty sweat mixed with a rosy, piquant perfume, or maybe bodywash, and she moaned and whispered “feels good” into my ear as I suckled.
While squeezing on, tonguing her tits, I angled a free hand downwards, went up her skirt, reached under the cotton sheath of her panties and stuck my index finger through the slippery silk folds of her pussy, up into her piping-hot, teeny tiny tight pussyhole.
Amazing how small it was. The snuggest, tightest I’d ever felt. I could only imagine how it would’ve been, how it would’ve stretched on my big white dick… It’s true what’s said about Oriental pussy being the world’s best…
8 squirmed, squealed, and swatted my hand away. I relented and reclined, lay back into the bed. I figured we were even. Touché.
Just feeling her snug snatch, her sizzling bitch heat, her luscious love tunnel, fucking blasted me into overdrive.
I was hugged in a heavy blanket of warmth and happily tingled all over, and the speed, voracity of her pumping on my cock reached a furious crescendo.
My toes curled, and I clutched 8 tightly, braced myself for the inevitable.
“Waaaaaaaaaa!” I gurgled and gasped, neck veins popping, and my dick let loose, spit comets of cum, chemtrails, ropes of splooge, blasting an enfilade, spraying, soaking and painting her black hip-hugging dress in jizzy Jackson Pollock pearly white streaks…
“Oh my god!” she muttered, milking my member diligently, caringly, giving it emphatic finishing tugs, draining it, pulling it a couple more times for good measure, even after I’d finished shooting.
“You jerk!” she hissed in faux odium, and she slapped me on the chest, playfully, knowing she’d have laundry to do.
“Your liquid is hot…” she observed, wiping me and then herself down afterwards with a hand towel, her juicy titties dangling and bobbing about as she tidied up.
8 raised a white bath towel over me, fixed her dress and went to the bathroom to wash her hands, and then quickly left the room to change.
I turned my attention to the TV, watching a replay of a pathetically lopsided NBA basketball game full of lackluster defense and gratuitous 3-pointers. For a second it looked like the crowd was full of corpses…
The news ticker read: “Flying Tigers versus Euthenics”
Panning around the room, I noticed a few fissures- long, vein-like cracks running the length of the wall. Fucking prefabs…
When 8 came back, she’d changed into a looser fitting raspberry-colored dress and was wearing a teal surgical mask.
She sat behind me on the bed, cross-legged, cradled my head in her lap and massaged my temples and lightly scratched my scalp.
It was harder to understand her muffled speech, but I comprehended most of it, and we talked about food. I told her I liked to eat exotic Asian delicacies, like scorpions and tarantulas.
She mentioned a market that sold snakes, foxes, and civets, bats and various colorful critters.
Being new to Wuhan, I’d yet to go, but wanted to, and I asked her if she’d take me.
To my surprise, she said “yes,” in English, flung out her phone and added me to her WeChat.
A phone on the wall, near the door, rang and beeped, signifying our time was up, and I slapped her fleshy ass as she rose.
8 laughed, blew me a mock kiss, told me to message her on WeChat, and hurried out of the room.
I held my index finger under my nose, the one that’d penetrated her, and sniffed it, deeply, joyously, breathing in its tangy smell, then licked off its pungent juice…
Delicious…
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer Sighing loudly, gathering myself, and stretching out like a starfish on the mattress, I felt magnificent after such a special massage.
“Fucking hell, I never understood strictures against ‘full-release’ massages… A penis or pussy is simply a body part… What makes it so different from a finger, hand, foot or neck, really?” I mumbled, my words touching air.
八
On the TV was a news report of a virus at the market we’d just spoken about. But the TV said it was under control, those affected were in hospital.
Looking at the newscaster, a late 20s, 30ish short-haired primp and proper lady with a Beijing accent, I wondered if she was human.
After a quick shower in the bathroom, I slipped back into my spa wear…
Leaving the room, I spotted a middle-aged man slumped over, passed out in the hallway, a puddle of indeterminate liquid next to him.
I stepped over him, avoiding the liquid as best I could.
Around the mouth of the elevators, the aging beauty from before was nowhere to be seen, and I elevatored down to the lounge area.
Most of the punters in the lounge were passed out, motionless, a few were coughing up a storm.
Piggy was the first of our crew I spotted. He sat languorously, looking ashamed and was being talked to by a male attendee from the spa, himself in a golden lounge shirt and shorts with the spa’s insignia emblazoned over the chest and leg pockets.
“You have two. Pay double. Two. Two. Double the price…” said the attendee, politely, but firmly. His servile smile was foreboding.
Piggy wasn’t responding, was only shrugging his shoulders, staring at the floor, guiltily, and his sweaty, sebaceous face had him looking like he wanted to click his heels and be back in London.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer The attendee stalked off; rage clearly visible in the angles of his obsidian eyes.
I sat down next to Piggy, asked what’s what.
Piggy grunted. His eyebrows were like diaresis, and he leaned over, said to me quietly, voice trembling:
“Ah, mate, I was being massaged by this bird, and another bird comes in, also fit. I couldn’t resist. They both… gave me an unforgettable massage. But we’ve not been paid yet, so my Alipay is low. Didn’t stop to think they charge double. I reckon I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to bargain.”
I saw across the room, and the aforementioned attendee, a lithe young man, was puffing a cigarette intently, and looking our direction, ominously. With his crewcut and bent teeth, he had a countenance stinking of anger.
He was on his phone, yelling into it, glaring directly at us. Another couple of young male staff, these two taller, bigger, soon joined him; the newcomers in plain street clothes; one of them with a weirdly sloped head.
Knowing this wouldn’t end well, I played the plenipotentiary, and smiled, waved stink eyes over, swiping my phone at him.
His countenance instantly shifted from frown to polite smile, and he hurried over, by himself, his raptorial partners in the corner looking on, baring their fangs…
I told him Piggy was drunk, didn’t know what was what, and that I’d pay his tab, and apologized for any misunderstandings. “No problem, no problem,” he assured me, scanning my QR code, grinning and shaking my hand.
He sauntered back over to his compadres, both of whom were now wearing facemasks, and waved them off and himself disappeared into the smoky darkness.
On the TV Piggy and I watched a sick man on a stretcher being carried by paramedics in hazmat suits, into a waiting ambulance. A guy a few seats away broke into a coughing fit. His mouth was frothing spumes of blood, nacreous mist…
“Might be a good time to bounce…” I said to Piggy, who shook his head, ebulliently, in agreement.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer I texted Randy, not sure if he’d respond. But he did. Instantaneously. Like an arrow from a bow.
He replied with a message about how he was gone. And that soon there’d be diseased corpses shot from missile launchers, atop concentration camp hospitals, from Wuhan, Hubei into Japan and Vietnam.
“It’s weaponized. A purge. Population control. Cull the elders, spur the birthrate, liberate Taiwan, a masterplan from the mandate of heaven. You know the CCP
killed Kobe… Next is Lebron… You won’t see Winnie anywhere for a week.
Guaranteed… I’m ghost…”
Randy would often rage about random conspiracy theories, get too sloshed, and generally be a disputatious motherfucker, so I didn’t put much currency in his message. Crazy bastard might be sleeping on the street again. Ah well.
I was about to text the Welshman, but he stumbled over, reeking of baijiu.
“Life is fug. Fugacious. Fucking fugacious,” Welsh was coughing himself now, snot trickling from his nose.
He held a white tissue; on it were what appeared to be rosebuds drawn in blood.
“What’s your gambit, mate?” he slurred, tilting his head, standing over me, humming a Monty Python tune.
“I’m thinking we bounce. Look at the dude over there.” I pointed at the guy I’d seen coughing blood, but he was gone.
“Let’s go, fellas.” I stood up and led the Brits to the lockers, where we dressed.
The usual locker room attendants were nowhere to be seen, so we showed ourselves to the throat of the hallway, elevatored to the ground floor, which was also vacant.
We made our way out into the icy air of the night, and on the street, we spotted a few elderly men, shabbily dressed, splayed out on the sidewalks, motionless.
A lady in a nearby apartment building threw a hissing cat from her second story window. Miraculously, the animal landed on its feet, was unscathed, and took off running.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer A fleet of ambulances screamed by, followed by a PLA tank. A helicopter roared above.
I booked a Didi, which showed up after only a couple minutes.
The car was a coal black hearse, its windows darkly tinted.
Climbing into the mothering heat of the hearse, we heard Eminem’s “Stan”
playing on garbled speakers, and the driver, a hook-nosed Uyghur in a skull cap and burnoose, silently nodded hello.
I got another text from Doomsday Randy:
“It’s SARS, newly modified. 5G, karma from the concentration camps, where it’s been tested... Eschatology 101… The infiltration… GET OUT.”
The Uyghur Didi driver reached over the driver’s seat and passed a black garbage bag to us.
I opened it and found a pile of 3M facemasks.
He again nodded to us, silently, in the rearview mirror.
His face in a pool of dark light, he gunned the engine.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer
PERDITION IN BANGKOK
1
The apartment had a grotesque, silent, and almost paranormal presence. As if thousands of glaring eyes were hidden in its walls. This was the premonition that found me upon my initial visit…
Moreover, the apartment’s air had a peculiar scent, a certain sterile acidity.
Similar to that of a cleaning fluid. And there was an unusual and occasional heaviness to the air, too, a passing pressure, much like the cabin of a descending aircraft.
However, despite my off-putting first impressions, the apartment’s pros outweighed its cons. The place was in a prime location, smackdab downtown, only a short walk to a subway station. In addition, it was sprawling, bright, and on an upper floor of a sleek, glass-plated tower. A building that looked sort of like a robot.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer But most importantly, it was cheap. Very cheap. The unctuous leasing agent averring that the bargain price was because of “COVIT” (as he pronounced it: koh-veet).
So I pounced on it, without hesitation. Scoring a place this big, in downtown Bangkok, a furnished apartment with floor-length windows and panoramic views of the “Big Mango” was having me feel as if I won the lotto. Then I remembered the alms I gave to that young muscular monk at Wat Benchamabophit, “The Marble Temple,” last year, and I supposed my altruism must be paying its dividends.
(That monk was shredded, too, his body cabled with rippling muscles. He appeared more like a pro kickboxer than a monk. Perhaps he was a Thai kickboxer, partaking in a monastic year, expiating his sins, collecting and distributing karma…) Note to self: Exercise more and practice more Buddhism.
Upon moving in, the cleaning fluid smells, declivity, and the ethereal presence remained but dissipated. And I’d been fascinated by the sound I’d been hearing. A sound I’d not heard in ages. The sound of silence.
I’d been delighted, enamored with the apartment’s silence. Unlike my last place, on the third floor of a five-storey building, here, in my new apartment, there were no hawkers outside my window, no-one pushing creaky carts or cajoling or honking squeaky little horns, and the ambient traffic sounds were merely a distant hum.
However, as is typical in Thailand, the silence wouldn’t last long.
Noises came forth. Noises crawling like hermit crabs from their shells; noises grinding like teeth in the night. The noises digging up skeletons. The noises casting spells and moving minutes. Noises buttfucking vampires. Noises birthing phantasms. Phantasms… falling out like popcorn… Phantasms… those chattering dark creatures of thought somewhere between the somnambulist and psychosomatic.
It was in this way that an onset of erethism ensued and thus began my descent into perdition.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer The perdition began immediately after I’d moved in. An infernal sleeplessness washed in, washed over me, in a nocturnal tide. I’d lie awake at night and sense…
something. Something like an urge. An urge, compelling me, seizing me. It was an uncomfortable feeling, like I had an unfinished task, and it was nagging me, the feeling, but I didn’t know exactly what I had to do, which in turn, bothered me even more.
The urge would often be accompanied by nausea, and a tightening of the chest, followed by columns of tiny floaters in vertical, horizontal formations. The floaters fluttering by, caking my line of sight, the floaters like little fluorescent bottle caps, flashing neon dots as bright as Bangkok’s cyberpunk skyline.
Lying in bed, I’d know the floaters and not know them. I’d experience the urge and disavow it, attempt to ignore it. But I couldn’t. There’d be a tug at my guts, as if a ghostly hand were digging down my throat. I’d feel as if I wanted to vomit. But I couldn’t. I could only muster a pathetic hiss and a dry heave. I longed to vomit.
Longed for a pumping of the guts. The longing, it came and went, then vanished.
It was transitory as a flock of birds.
After a week in the new apartment, the nagging, the paranormal urges worsened to an execrable degree, and I began not being able to sleep. At all.
Day and night were becoming increasingly irrelevant. Whether the orb of the sun, or projected shadows, neither mattered. I was just stuck. I was contemplating visiting a fortune teller. I was wondering if I was shapeshifting into a water monitor lizard, because I was imagining myself as a water monitor lizard. I was seeing myself swimming in canals and crawling up sticky walls.
It was enraging. Whenever I’d try to sleep, I couldn’t. Then I’d hoist my head and check the clock. 4:35 a.m. It was always 4:35 a.m.
2
It was 4:35 a.m. I decided that since I couldn’t sleep anyway, I’d go stand on the balcony, stare at the ether. In the inky sky, I could see whirling patterns passing by, patterns passing into a sidereal distance; vivacious, complex patterns, patterns of
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer colored gemstones, tropical flower banks, Scottish stained-glass windows, mogul arches and suicide doors, peacock designs. The patterns flickered and glowered brighter than animated billboards, then disappeared like groups of penguins trudging into an Antarctic blizzard.
The street below was empty, graveyard quiet, save for the gentle rumble of a passing truck or the lowkey buzz of a motorbike. I’d never seen downtown Bangkok so desolate. I recalled complaints about legions of uncouth continental Chinese tourists trashing Thailand, and COVIT seemed like their perfect closing act.
I yawned, then sucked in a steamy breath of the outside air. I’d say “fresh” air, but the air is never actually fresh in Bangkok. It always carries a faint effluvium, and often packs a powerful stink; a stink of diesel fumes, a stink of sewer smells, or that distinct smoky stink created by local farmers slashing and burning nearby rice fields.
Again, I considered shapeshifting into a water monitor lizard. I seriously began to identify as a water monitor lizard. I saw myself in scales, saw myself with green skin. I saw myself with a forked tongue, claws instead of fingers, and my blood cold as ice water…
Night still hung like a cape over the city. I stretched and yawned again, then crossed my arms and leaned forward on my balcony’s railing and saw out to an abandoned building nearby. The building site, the development, was intended to be an audacious luxury condo, aimed at the continental Chinese market, but construction had been halted, and so it sat abandoned and half-built, its windows staring absently, such as the eye sockets of skulls in an ossuary.
Nowadays the abandoned luxury condo project was occupied by rats. Infested by rats. Big, ugly gray rats. I’d been seeing colonies of big ugly gray rats scurrying up the half-built building’s walls. Rats running around its hollowed shell. Rats living on its ossified floors. The rats really were gargantuan too, almost the size of small dogs.
There were packs of stray cats living on my street, and I wondered if the cats could tackle, maul the rats, do whatever cats do to rats, but I wasn’t so sure. The
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer stray cats were thin, brittle-looking, and some were tailless. And those rats were fucking monstrous.
The rats seemed to be growing larger, too, by the day. Perhaps the rats were a result of an experiment gone wrong or toxic waste, like the Teenage Ninja Mutant Turtles. Somehow I didn’t see any physical confrontation between the hulking, toxic rats and the emaciated feral cats being a fair fight.
I imagined a feral cat being circled by rats, torn to shreds, the same way a hornet is swarmed and annihilated in a bee’s nest. Then I wondered if the rats would die of “COVIT.” Maybe that’d do them in. The rats, in an abandoned Chinese building, dying of COVIT. Sounds plausible and strangely inevitable.
I stepped back inside, into the tingly chill of manufactured air, and returned to bed. I’d been experiencing trouble striking the right balance with my new a/c system. It was always too hot or too cold. Never just right…
3
I wormed underneath the covers and pressed my head back into my stack of pillows. The pillows were soft as breasts. My bones heavy, I sank into the springs of the mattress. Tossing, turning, I was trying to position myself right. Yet sleep wouldn’t find me. My mind raced until the urge came back.
Sitting up again in bed, I coughed. A dry, hacking cough. There was something in my throat. Something bubbling up from my stomach. There was something inside me. I knew it. If only I had an X-ray machine, I’d know. When will phones have X-ray apps? When will that happen? Probably not soon. We still lack the flying cars I pictured for the 2020s.
Coughing more, a body-rocking cough seized over me. Then a cold quiver. Then my body trembled, so much it was like an earthquake. I worried I might have epilepsy. Or Parkinson’s. Or Lupus. Whatever the fuck Lupus is, I might have it and might be about to die.
Wait a sec, doesn’t Selena Gomez have Lupus? And she isn’t dead. But didn’t she need a kidney transplant? What if I need a kidney transplant? Is Lupus why so
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer many people wake up, in a bathtub, missing a kidney? The more I contemplated Lupus, the more I became unsettled.
But I would resist the impulse to grab my phone and check WebMD about Lupus. I would resist WebMD altogether. The NHS site is better. The British are typically better at accepting death. Americans act like it’s optional. A British coworker told me that. And it’s generally true. Just compare WebMD to the NHS website and you’ll see.
The NHS site even mentions “farting” as a side effect. Of what, I can’t remember.
Maybe it was Lupus. As scary as Lupus seems, I think Lupus needs a scarier name.
Lupus sounds more like a Sesame Street character than a disease…
I heard an obnoxious falsetto voice in the distance. It was crooning a horrific version of the David Bowie song “I’m Afraid of Americans.” It sounded worse than a failed American Idol audition. It sounded worse than fingernails on a chalkboard.
It sounded worse than Avenged Sevenfold.
Then I smelled a strong scent of gin and lifted my head. Startled and curiously intrigued, I scanned around the room and, standing beside the TV, I saw a bald, heavyset man; he was broad of shoulders, thick in the stomach, and maybe 50
years of age. The stranger stood on stubby legs and had freakishly long arms, arms that dangled like dead animals, arms that reached below his knees.
Stranger, too, was that the stranger was naked, and looked like a white ape, with how his bushy gray body hair coalesced, carpeted his pale skin. His simian face was twisted into a taut mask of pain, but once we made eye contact, a toothless smile stretched over his lips. Then he vanished into the darkness of my bedroom, instantly, as if a TV screen were shut off, and the heavy scent of alcohol also disappeared.
Must be the insomnia, I thought. Or maybe I’m dreaming. Whatever it was, I was disturbed by the vision but threw my head back into my pillows. Tried to let the night terror pass.
I tried to count sheep. I tried to think anodyne thoughts. But I was haunted, rocked by a bolt of fear, when I closed my eyes and saw the white ape again. He
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer was still naked but was crucified, upside down, to the wall of a Hooters restaurant, and his chest had a surgically implanted, heart-shaped computer monitor that was broadcasting leaked video of corporations chipping human brains, corporations broadcasting commercials into the populace’s dreams, corporations selling face tattoo advertising space.
I ruminated on just how much Coca-Cola would have to pay to slap a Coke logo on a customer’s cheeks or forehead… I estimated face tattoo ad prices would vary by country, region.
4
I melted into my indentation. Then I farted, a particularly loud, noxious fart, and stretched my arms and experienced another jarring body tremor.
I worried, worried about the shaking. Shaking is not normal. Was it a stroke?
What if… What if it was… ? I might have... How would I know? Who would know?
Phones don’t have body-screening apps! I could die right this second.
Anodyne thoughts! Anodyne thoughts! Be that water monitor lizard, I commanded myself. Have a lizard’s skin, integument. A lizard should be stoic.
But then another thought terror seized me. What if I grew to 100-feet-tall, and were just walking around as a giant, but not hurting anyone, just yelling, “Hey, I don’t know what’s going on here, I don’t know why I’m a giant! I come in peace!”
while the army, and enraged citizens are shooting at me, trying to slay me, treating me like Godzilla. That’s what I felt like, lying there in bed. I was an accidental giant.
I breathed deeply; my chest heaved and fell. Anodyne thoughts! I attempted to ponder the fresh and uplifting, like the documentaries my friend recommended about Yo! MTV Raps! And another about Death Row Records.
But… my mind kept churning… And I suddenly panicked. What if… I… What if I have AIDS? I’d had unprotected sexual intercourse with a trashy chick from a bar, only a couple months ago. But I read AIDS is easier to catch through anal, and I don’t remember doing anal with her. But just because I don’t remember it doesn’t
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer mean it didn’t happen. It was dark, and my aim might have been off. I do remember she was surprisingly tight.
SHIT! What if I have AIDS!?
Then I thought of the people I’d heard about, in Cuba, artists and street performers who were injecting themselves with needles filled with AIDS blood, in a quest to catch AIDS. “Bug Chasers,” or something like that, was their appellation.
There was also a guitarist from an old heavy metal band I like, Ratt, who died of AIDS. Do rats die of AIDS? I should play Ratt at an ear-piercing volume, blast it at the rats in the abandoned Chinese building. Why do I hate the rats, anyway? They spread diseases, though, right? The bubonic plague? Maybe COVIT and AIDS both came from rats…
The rapper Eazy-E died of AIDS.
Eazy-E died from Suge Knight stabbing him with an AIDS needle, though, right? I think someone told me that. Or maybe Suge Knight shot Eazy-E with a poison dart, a poison dart full of AIDS. I could see Suge Knight, as a ninja, hiding atop a fir tree, blasting AIDS darts at Eazy-E.
And what the fuck? How come the Ratt guitarist and the boxer Tommy Morrison and Eazy-E all died of AIDS and Magic Johnson is still alive? It doesn’t quite make sense. But I guess because Magic wasn’t involved with Suge Knight. That must be it. I don’t know if Suge killed the Ratt guitarist or the boxer, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Suge Knight probably killed a long list of people. More than Sammy
“The Bull”, I bet…
5
A string of fuzzy green floaters slinked over my line of sight, crawling like a neon caterpillar. Then I recalled that Sammy “The Bull” has a podcast. And he’s on YouTube now. Sammy “The Bull” Gravano killed 19 people. And now he has a podcast. Why do people listen to it? Why do I listen to it? For the same reason I’d watch OJ Simpson give relationship advice on Twitter.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer The macabre is fascinating. People will always crane their necks at car accidents, plane crashes, Britney Spears, and reality television…
I wonder where he is, Sammy “The Bull”… What if Sammy “The Bull” Gravano were living next door? He’d fit right in, in Bangkok, another elderly expat. Sammy
“The Bull”, in a Bangkok whorehouse, getting sucked off right now. I could see it.
Then I remembered that I read a book about a guy who fucked hookers without condoms. But he didn’t catch AIDS and was disappointed. Then he cut off one of his fingers in protest of Amazon’s effect on independent bookstores and mailed the severed limb to Jeff Bezos.
These were the thoughts plaguing me. The thoughts animating me. Like why it’s funny to see a fat person dancing or riding a motorcycle… And what does Elon Musk think about when he takes a shit… What does Jeff Bezos or Bill Gates think of when they shit?
I don’t think much when I shit. I look at sport scores and highlights. That’s probably the difference between billionaires and me. Billionaires are serious.
They’re probably working, thinking, inventing things, even when they’re shitting.
I wonder what Sammy “The Bull” thinks of when he shits. Didn’t Sammy “The Bull”
catch Lupus? Isn’t that why he lost all his body hair? These days, Sammy “The Bull”
looks like a burn victim or a cancer kid. He’s all fucked up, looks worse than Michael Rapaport. Michael Rapaport, “The Gringo Mandingo”, that dude has the face of a hairless cat.
Then I wondered if Sammy “The Bull”, when taking a shit, thinks about OJ
Simpson…
(Then I pictured Sammy “The Bull”, barefoot and in a wrestler’s singlet, an old school singlet, King Kong Bundy style... Sammy “The Bull”, running barefoot in Lumpini Park. Sammy “The Bull”, stopping midstride, Sammy “The Bull”, with his New Yawk accent, berating and cursing at an Asian Water Monitor Lizard, just assailing the creature with expletives…)
Anton Szandor LaVey wrote that Martin Luther thought up the reformation while taking a crap. I could never forget that.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer People always picture Satanists as chopping up puppies, Satanists painting themselves in chicken blood and dancing naked, chanting in front of full moons.
But not all Satanists are like that. I had a friend who was a Satanist, and he was an accountant. If you saw him, in his suit and cufflinks, you’d never think he was a Satanist. But he was.
6
I shifted in bed, sensed a stinging chill, a cold presence, and the hairs on the nape of my neck prickled. My eyes opened, mechanically, like automatic doors, and I saw that lying next to me lay a young Thai girl, maybe early 20ish. The girl was completely nude. She lay supine, and her protruding eyeballs were of an ungodly crimson-purple color, and her slim body, her golden skin was repaired in yantra tattoos.
The girl was sobbing and trembling. Then she screamed at the ceiling, bellowed out something in Isan dialect. Jolted aback, I jumped out of bed, and she immediately vanished.
It must be another hallucination. I can’t remember the last time I slept properly. I might even be dreaming that I’m awake. Or awake and wishing I was dreaming.
It’s confusing, jarring, a jolt to the senses, these circadian disruptions. The whites of my walls appeared as tall as snow-capped mountains, and sudden schools of greenish floaters swam through my vision like flocks of effervescent fish.
My ears popped. Then I yawned, sucked in a batch of pensive air, and cautiously crept back into the warmth of the bed and lay atop the covers, flat on my back. I wore only my Scooby Doo boxers. I looked around, both ways, like I was about to cross the street, but I didn’t see the crying Thai ghost girl. Though I could feel that noticeable chill of an invisible presence again. It was strong too. Stronger than ever. It was as if the walls were no longer snow-capped mountains, and were instead cloudy, unblinking eyes of a leviathan.
My eyes felt like peepholes, like two cameras, so I shut my eyelids. Spray-paint, street art visions cast across my psyche, animated graffiti visions of Eazy-E in a sea of flames. Eazy-E in sunspots, Eazy-E as a Greek God, Eazy-E atop Mount Everest,
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer collecting solar flares with his sunglasses. Eazy-E in a diadem, floating over Compton like a blimp. Eazy-E flying like Superman, Eazy-E in a spectral cast of gold.
Then I cringed, witnessed Eazy-E lassoed and jerked down from the sky, gored by a syringe-wielding Suge Knight. Suge Knight in a wolf gray, flat-brimmed Stetson hat. Suge Knight as a werewolf, Suge Knight howling at a full moon, Suge Knight’s eyes full of blood as he sadistically stabbed a crouching, crying Eazy-E… I imagined Suge Knight being a violently peremptory fuck.
“Youse a penguin looking motherfucker,” the Dr. Dre song sounded in my mind.
I used to memorize gangsta rap song lyrics, sing them in the shower. Gangsta rap is the most authentic form of music, the only art that is real, the only art form that is true to itself, the only art that is pure, the only art that purports to be nothing other than what it is. Gangsta rap is the most quintessentially American music in that it unashamedly, unreservedly, unapologetically celebrates the pursuit of happiness...
7
A mosquito the size of a grizzly bear could be in my room, and if it were quietly buzzing, the a/c might obscure it. So I cracked my eyes open a tad and saw nothing but the darkness. Though I wasn’t convinced there weren’t any prehistoric creatures living in the bowels of Bangkok’s sewer system.
I flipped over, onto my stomach, and stretched into an X shape. My mind moved and I wondered if maybe karma came back to bite Suge Knight in the ass. Or shoot him in the ass. I remembered that I was in Miami Beach, right down the street from the party where Suge Knight got shot in the buttocks. Yes, oh yes, I heard the police sirens, ambulances, and commotion.
The news reports said Suge had been shot in the leg, but I knew a guy who worked at the Shore Club, and he heard the pop from the gun, and said he saw the assailant, a dude in a pink shirt, opening fire at Suge’s table, and when Suge ducked down, Suge covered his head like it was a Cold War schoolkid drill. And that’s when Suge took a bullet in the butt.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer I’m not sure if the person who shot Suge in the ass was ever apprehended. I’d like to think it was Eazy-E’s ghost. A poltergeist, hellbent on vengeance, hellbent on shooting Suge in his big fat ass. I wondered if the bullet was intended for Suge’s back but trailed lower, due to bad aim. Just like a penis, whether in the bathroom, or during drunk sex, guns can be difficult to aim.
In movies, people fire guns like clicking off and on a light switch. Remember that scene from Goodfellas where Joe Pesci is shooting at Spider’s feet? Funny as it was, in reality, everyone’s ears would have been bleeding. In reality, guns are loud and heavy. Was it an amateur, shooting Suge, or a rushed shot? Not everyone shoots with the acuity of Chris Kyle.
Who shot Suge Knight in the ass? The mystery was consuming me.
It coulda been Vanilla Ice. I saw in the doc that due to a financial dispute between the two, Suge Knight strangled Vanilla Ice, then dangled Vanilla Ice, upside down, by his legs, from a high-rise hotel balcony. Suge Knight then strong-armed Vanilla Ice’s publishing money, took Vanilla Ice for five million dollars! FIVE million fucking dollars! That was how Suge got the seed capital for Death Row Records.
Maybe Vanilla Ice blasted Suge Knight in the buttocks. Vanilla Ice, in a pink shirt. I could see it. I could understand it.
I once saw Vanilla Ice driving in Miami Beach. He was behind the wheel of a white Suzuki SUV. It was definitely him. Did he drive that same SUV to shoot Suge in the ass? It’s not impossible. Anything’s possible.
Who shot Suge Knight in the ass? It remains a mystery, at least to me. I could google it, but I won’t. I prefer the incident’s shadowy, unimportant ambiguity.
It could have been Biggie’s ghost. It should have been Biggie’s ghost. I remembered a documentary I saw, about Biggie. In it, he sang a few bars of a song, and I was floored by his singing voice. Biggie should have been the next Barry White…
A pink shirt, in Miami, that doesn’t narrow it down. I wore pink shirts in Miami.
Many people wear pink shirts there. A pink shirt is just a pink shirt. It doesn’t mean the person shot Suge Knight.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer I knew a Colombian guy who got his arm bitten off by a shark while surfing in Miami Beach. He wore a lot of pink shirts. But he probably wasn’t the assailant who shot Suge Knight, because if it was a dude with only one arm, that’d be a far easier suspect to apprehend. Probably not a lot of one-armed, pink-shirt-wearing Colombians running around Miami Beach, shooting people. There might be a couple of others, but there are not, like, thousands of them.
8
I tossed back over, lay on my back, feeling like a turtle lying on its shell. Shifting again in my bed, onto my side, my pillow was wet. Drool, sweat. It could be either.
I’d been sweating profusely at night ever since I moved into this apartment.
My mind raced, snapped back. Who did it? Who shot Suge Knight in the ass? Like Oswald, he/she could already be dead. The person who allegedly shot Tupac was later shot and killed. Shot by a person on a motorcycle or shot as he rode a motorcycle. I can’t remember. Maybe he was shot by Vanilla Ice. Or Suge Knight.
But probably not the pink-shirt surfer, one-armed Colombian guy. The one-armed Colombian might have shot someone, but I don’t think he shot the guy who shot Tupac. But I can’t state this with 100% certainty…
Maybe Suge Knight killed Tony Soprano, at the end of The Sopranos, in the series finale. That would have been a better ending than it suddenly cutting out. Mind you, I sorta liked the obscurity, the fuck you-ness of that abrupt ending, but still, Suge Knight, strolling into the restaurant, Suge Knight breaking out nunchacku and attacking Tony. A brutal fight to the finish. That would have been more entertaining and satisfying.
They don’t make TV shows like The Sopranos anymore. I miss that show…
I farted again and coughed. Shit, I hope I don’t have the Lupus.
The power structure of China flashed through my mind. That they use prison labor.
My computer, like most of the items in my apartment, was made in China. The computer I use was maybe built by a political dissident or just a plain old-fashioned rapist. I don’t like thinking of rapists building my computers. But you
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer never know who’s a rapist. The guy at the grocery store counter, the person next to you on the subway, he could be a rapist. He could be worse than Bill Cosby.
Bill Cosby was raping people. That still fucks with my head. I watched his show when I was a kid. I watched a rapist. I admired him. He was America’s Dad. And he was drugging and raping people. A piece of me died when I learned about that.
Although I was grown, had experienced hardships and had heard, seen many horrible things, Bill Cosby raping people, that kind of killed the last of my innocence.
I wondered if China has a Bill Cosby. A beloved celebrity who rapes people.
I’d read that China has a huge gender disparity. The country long had a government-imposed, strict limitation on child births, so they could tackle their exploding population, and families were limited to one child. The families there traditionally favored boys over girls so women would have selective abortions, or give girl babies up for adoption, and I heard stories of doctors casually snapping the necks of newborn girl babies, then tossing the dead babies into the garbage.
9
I unloosed a whimpering fart and again thought of China. I keep hearing about China. I keep thinking about China. There’s always news about China. Just today, I’d seen a story about a man in Anhui, China, who went on a knife rampage, a stabbing spree, and he hacked five people to death and injured 15 others. I imagine he’ll be in jail, making computers or phones, iPhones. Or they’ll kill him.
Quick too. I heard the death penalty in China is expedited, done in about the time it takes to order a sandwich at Panera Bread.
I constantly read of stabbing sprees in China. Why are people in continental China always stabbing each other? Attacking one another with knives? Why?
I contemplated the pros and cons of knife attacks as opposed to mass shootings.
A mass stabber can’t kill as many people, but a mass stabber could be less conspicuous, because knives don’t make so much noise… Still, it’d be far easier to defend against a stabber, and if you’re in good physical shape, you could even outrun him, whereas with a gun…
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer Then I contemplated just how many Chinese people would be stabbed at the condo next door. How many people would be raped there? Now only rats live there. Toxic rats. Rats maybe with COVIT and AIDS.
My stomach tightened, then rumbled, and my ass erupted, ejaculated a trombone honk of a fart, and then a bass-heavy fart that broke so violently it shook the coils of my mattress.
And the chattering in my consciousness continued, unabated… Like, what if everyone in China and India, all 2.4 billion people, what if all of them farted at the same time? I could see that causing Earth to break from its orbit, blasting the planet, caroming off into the dead of space, like a wayward pinball...
China. There are always stories about stabbing sprees in China. Stabbing sprees in kindergartens. I read elementary schools there have erected barriers, fencing around the exteriors of their campuses to stop stabbers.
Who the fuck wants to attack, slash and stab schoolchildren? What exactly was going through their minds? Who are these people? Yeah, it’s annoying when a little kid is screaming in a restaurant or on a plane, but have a heart, man, fucking come on… Buy noise-cancelling headphones or some shit…
Maybe it was Lupus. Stabbing sprees in China, maybe it’s a side effect of Lupus…
You get Lupus, and then you just gotta go and fucking stab people…
I read China is like a giant prison, a giant concentration camp, that there are police, cameras and surveillance instruments everywhere, lampposts, walls and mirrors that can see, and that even private messages on social media are monitored. Well, if it’s like a colossal prison, it doesn’t surprise me people are stabbing each other, because that’s what happens in prisons, right? In China, there are probably hundreds of people being stabbed every day.
China is weird. It has nets outside its factories so if the prisoners, workers jump, the nets will stop them from dying. I wonder if the nets could be trampolines, and bounce the jumper back up to the roof or window and then a boss man snatches them back in. Maybe with a fishing net or a pair of giant tongs…
China… China just oozes evil. China seems like the evilest, scariest, most pestiferous place in the world. I saw news footage of their government meeting,
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer and they had red flags, hammer and sickle flags adorned everywhere around a huge assembly hall. All their leaders, representatives were scary-looking men, serious-looking men, sharp-faced men, men with sullen eyes and hard jaws.
The Chinese leaders all looked like rapists. They all had evil, searching expressions on their faces. Probably planning, fantasizing about the next person they’d rape.
Didn’t a high-ranking official in the Chinese Communist Party rape the tennis star Peng Shuai?
Bill Cosby could have been the leader of China. Although I heard most Chinese hate Black people, so Bill Cosby probably couldn’t have been Prime Minister of China. But that scenario certainly would have made an interesting sitcom.
10
The pungent scent of alcohol returned, and I mechanically slid open my eyes again. In the corner of my room cut quite the scene. The crying young Thai girl, now dressed in a blue jean skirt and hot pink tank top, was being strangled by the ape I’d seen before.
The white ape was refulgent, immolating, steely blue phosphorescent flares licking over him; the flames dancing, reflecting in my eyes. The white ape’s whole body blazing afire as he gripped his bearish hands around the young girl’s pencil thin neck, strangling her, squeezing the soul from her bony body.
Watching the scene, a shadow of fear crossed my consciousness, and I thought about how if I killed someone, I’d probably strangle them, because that’d be the most satisfying method of murder. Particularly if I really detested the person...
Then the flaming ape cocked back his right hand, balled up a fist and began bludgeoning the young girl, each wild punch splashing into her face, each wild punch landing with the sound of an axe striking a block of wood. Blood oozing and streaking from the girl’s nose and mouth, a chuckling hysteria erupted from the ape’s throat, long jerking cackles that grew louder and higher with each blow he landed.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer Then the flaming ape went silent as he tossed the poor girl to the floor, grabbed a clump of her jet-black hair and dragged the girl by her hair, pulling the poor girl across the floor like a bag of garbage. The girl gurgled blood, flailed, slapped at the ape’s hands, kicked her legs, jabbered and screamed. But it was feckless. The flaming ape easily overpowered her.
The two continued their horror show to the balcony, where the flaming white ape promptly hoisted up and flung the small girl over the balcony railing, sending the girl screaming and tumbling, ten stories, to the pavement below. Then the girl’s screaming abruptly ended when I heard a faint, tiny splat, like someone stepping on a grape.
The flaming ape calmly returned to my bedroom, scooped up a bottle of gin from next to my TV, twisted the cap off and began to guzzle it, flipping the bottle upside down, chugging it and chugging it, his fiery hand then clinching and cracking the bottle, the bottle bursting into a crystalline explosion of glass. Then the white ape once again disappeared, repaired into the darkness.
Only a hallucination. Only a hallucination. Only a nightmare… I reassured myself and pressed my eyes closed…
The air was without sound, but my mind was a confusing conflict of noise and imagery. I saw a tornado of incandescent white roaring through an unnamed city.
I saw falling houses. There were building collapses, thuds of falling trees, flashes of flames and cable news reporters standing lamely in city streets, the reporters clutching microphones shaped like dildos, the reporters standing outside in the ass of the storm. The reporters with face tattoos, the reporters yelling out dick pill ads over the howling wind… The reporters bursting into fireballs… The fireballs then rolling, collecting mass, cataclysmic orange-black boulders swallowing city streets…
Dense black smoke rose from a river of fire. Then the scene faded into grainy video imagery of the living dead reporters dancing luridly in Russian graveyards.
The dead reporters freezing in monster movie poses and confessing to cannibalism. Then I saw the reporters reincarnated as monitor lizards and jumping off high-rise buildings and other monitor lizards doing cannonballs into
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer another river of fire… Finally, the fiery river solidified into a misting white-green vapor, and the vapor formed into fuzzy green floaters, awhirl in a starless, coal-black sky…
11
My ears popped, like I’d just pulled out earplugs, and sounds of my psyche sounded once again. I’d recently been reading a lot of Breitbart. Earlier that day I’d read an article on the lab in Wuhan, the WIV, Wuhan Institute of Virology, where many hypothesize COVIT came from.
One lab. That’s all it took. Maybe a worker there, being sloppy, led to unconscionable emotional suffering, the deaths of millions, and caused catastrophic economic damage. One lab. That was all it took, one lab leak, and everyone on Earth suffered.
I wondered who Patient Zero was. If that person was dead. If that person even knew. If a janitor at the lab caught the COVIT from a lab door not being shut or a loose zipper on a hazmat suit. I wondered if the Chinese government killed that janitor, like they did to that whistleblower doctor, Dr. Li, so the world would never know the truth.
Patient Zero… Who is Patient Zero?
Was he or she murdered by malevolent technocrats? I’d read that the Chinese Communist Party wants to be more likable, wants to have better PR, wants to make friends. Of course, that’ll be hard, with COVIT, the lab leak, amid their other malfeasance. These days there’s probably no country in the world as hated as China, thanks to its government.
Then I wondered why the guy in Anhui stabbed those people.
But would knowing change anything? Like the Vegas shooter, everyone wanted to know “the motive.” But what would it matter? Maybe they were just mentally ill or were simply sadistic pricks who wanted to kill people, for whatever societal grievance. Why was I even thinking this?
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer I coughed again, then sprang up from the bed. I ran to the bathroom, hoping I could throw up. The urge simmered. Then the pull poked into my throat once more. I wondered if maybe a rat from the abandoned building had crawled down my throat as I slept. I wanted to vomit out the rat, see it scurry and flail its little rat legs as I pushed it from my throat and it plopped into the toilet bowl, into the toilet water, like the piece of shit it is.
But no. No rat. Nothing. I dry-heaved once again. Only a string of spittle dangled from the corner of my mouth. Then I ambled back to bed, closed my eyes and lay in the sticky wetness of my sweaty sheets and mattress.
Then I wondered where Suge Knight is… What he’s doing… Isn’t he still in jail?
Didn’t he join the Taliban? Or did he carjack an Uber driver and then go Grand Theft Auto, recklessly driving down a city sidewalk, randomly running down pedestrians?
Then I wondered where the Anhui Stabber is now. What the prisons in China must be like. Maybe the Anhui Stabber already died from the Wuhan Virus.
Another tremor rocked me, and I let out a gruesome, violent fart, a stink bomb of an eruption. It stank worse than a rotting body. Then Lebron James flashed into my mind.
Lebron James crying about social justice but turning a blind eye to the crimes of the Chinese government. Because it pays him. But how many others would ignore COVIT if the Chinese government gifted them, bribed them with millions of dollars?
Most people, I bet. Why was I thinking this? I know Suge Knight would ignore any crime for millions of dollars. Suge Knight would throw his own mother off a hotel balcony for Lebron money. Suge Knight probably did throw his own mother off a hotel balcony.
Then I remembered that impassioned speech Lebron gave, lamenting the emotionally and financially taxing experience of Daryl Morey’s Hong Kong tweet.
I pictured Lebron, in drag, a red dress, at the Beijing Winter Olympics. I pictured Lebron James ice skating. Lebron James ice dancing. Lebron, naked, addressing the Chinese parliament. Lebron wearing a triangle hat and stabbing people in Anhui. Those were the things flitting through my mind.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer My skull felt like a jalopy, and my ears popped, my chest tightened, and I felt as if I were under water.
Choking, I gasped for breath, and I slid my eyes open and saw WebMD robots, the ghosts in my apartment, Suge Knight, Vanilla Ice, Chinese Emperor Xi Jinping, Sammy “The Bull” and a naked Lebron James, all of them, standing arms akimbo, all of them in a semi-circle around my bed. All of them staring and standing in judgment. All of them then throwing monitor lizard shit at me. All of them then pointing and yelling that it was Lupus, it was fucking LUPUS all along!
I gasped again, pressed my eyes shut, then popped them open. The clock read 5:21. Why does time shift so fast when I’m half-awake, half-asleep? COVIT time acted differently. It was time suffused with energy and lethargy, if that’s possible.
Anything is possible, I remember Kevin Garnett screaming after the Celtics won a title in ‘08. I sat up in bed, shrieked “ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE” and then sank back down. My bed felt colder, slicked with sweat. My body choked and shook again.
Then relaxed with celerity. There was no rat in my stomach. No-one, not even Suge Knight was there. There was only me and the soundtrack of my thoughts.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer
BANGKOK DURING THE PLAGUE
The streets were quiet. Dusty. Mildewed buildings boarded up. Countless stores, restaurants, and hotels renamed “For Rent” or “For Sale.”
Most of lower Sukhumvit had been mothballed or abandoned. This stretch of downtown sleeping dead.
The Wuhan Virus had struck again, had submerged Bangkok. It was apocalyptic, really, walking around, seeing shuttered storefronts, empty sidewalks, empty streets. In my ten years in Bangkok, I’d never seen so much of Sukhumvit Road empty, so many stretches of open road with few to no cars, vans, trucks, busses, or tuk-tuks. I didn’t even know what Sukhumvit Road looked like without its previously ubiquitous bumper-to-bumper traffic.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer The majority of the road’s remaining traffic appeared to be delivery drivers, most of them on motorcycles, motorbikes. And in bursts and waves they went on wailing by, engines screaming like banshees, others buzzing like hornets, all of them riding ferociously down open arteries, the concrete veins of the urban jungle.
Bangkok, the “Big Mango” or better yet, the “Big Durian” had been both becalmed and paralyzed by plague. Despite the baking sun, the mood and psyche of the city was cold. And dark.
Practically every establishment was shuttered. The puppet government, the ruling military junta had even closed the parks, so there was nowhere to run or walk, except along Sukhumvit Road, or along the alleys, the sois, if one was brave enough and aware enough to dodge the motorcycles whipping around, shooting out from carparks, driveways and sideroads like errant missiles.
And there were many of these brave souls. There were scattered walkers, runners, about all of them expats. The runners wore surgical masks, and one could see in their eyes the ugly glitter of malaise, listlessness, boredom and cabin fever. It was unclear if the runners were running for health reasons or mental reasons. Or both.
Aside from the runners, there were also a few locals, Thais, out using the empty streets as gyms, doing push-ups on the sidewalk, jumping rope in front of abandoned stores. I’d hoped to spot a couple Muay Thai boxers sparring but didn’t. Maybe tomorrow, I thought…
Nearby a Thai doing push-ups on the street corner, I happened upon a bit of what could be described as karma. In a twist of irony, street vendors stood under umbrellas, selling fruits, noodles and barbeque in front of a shuttered 7-Eleven, as if the street chefs were reclaiming their turf from the Japanese mega-corp.
But altogether there weren’t that many people outside. Which was highly unusual for Bangkok. Normally every street, every corner, every alley, every nook and
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer cranny would be peopled. But the plague had done away with that. The populous was in hiding. The people were in fear.
The fear of the plague was perhaps worse than the plague itself. A sense of fear pervaded Bangkok. It was in the air. Hanging and choking the city like a noose. It was in the air. Heavier than the humidity. There was not only fear of the virus, but there was a palpable sense of dread. A seeping fear feeding and spreading and multiplying from itself. The roaring bustle of Bangkok extinguished in an ugly squall of silence…
Stopping for a second to pop into an open 7-Eleven, for a cold drink, I instinctively went to sit down to the small dining counter by the automatic door, where I’d always sit. I noticed the automatic door was opening and closing, swishing, randomly, even as no customers were entering the store. The automatic door repeatedly chiming out “Hello, Welcome!” in its childish robot voice, to welcome ghosts.
Scanning around, I saw no ghosts. But I did see that the counter’s stools were gone, and atop the counter were several stacked boxes of bottled water.
Yet more restrictions...
I felt a surge of sadness wash over me, not being able to simply sit down, have a cold drink and gaze out the window, voyeuristically watch the streets and the people. However, with so few people out anyway, I guess it didn’t matter as much.
My front pocket buzzed, my phone rattling at my thigh, and I fished out my phone from my pocket and saw a disturbing news notification. It said that for the first time ever, the daily number of COVID deaths had surpassed daily deaths from road accidents. A truly startling statistic.
I trudged out the 7 feeling disappointed, feeling desperate for more non-recirculated air. Even if the air was tinged with diesel fumes, I didn’t care. As long as it was outside air. As long as the scenery wasn’t the walls of my apartment.
Even walking down a narrow, patchy sidewalk full of holes and bumps and random tiny fire hydrants that seem installed to simply trip up pedestrians more
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer than anything else, even that, was better than sitting in my tiny apartment, with its white walls mocking me, the walls getting closer and smaller by the second.
Over the last few days, the sky had been milky, overcast, with sporadic bursts of tropical downpours, showers rapping my building’s roof like machine gun fire. But not today. Today the sky was pure blue, blue as the Andaman Sea, and the sun was bathing Bangkok in a blissful patina of bright gold. The flood of sunshine on my skin invigorating, raising my lowly spirits.
I lifted my gaze toward the clear heavens, which looked clearer than I’d seen in months. Perhaps the plague reducing traffic had had an effect. Or perhaps the farmers outside the city weren’t burning the rice fields. One can never be sure.
Still, I strapped on my Vogmask tight, and set out to continue my trek.
Navigating Bangkok on foot has always been a challenge, due to the lack of sidewalks, pedestrian partitioning.
The sidewalks, when they do exist, often double as space for outdoor restaurants or street hawkers, peddlers, food carts and sometimes feature holes (unintentionally yet perfectly) designed to snap an ankle; or are “landmines,”
loose planks of pavement that erupt and splash a plash of wastewater, rainwater on pedestrians’ feet and thighs and muddy up shoes; or whatever exists of the sidewalk will simply serve as an informal parking lot for motorbikes.
But there was less of that these days, due to the plague. There were actually long stretches of empty sidewalk, making it easier to navigate. Of course, one still had to be on guard for uneven pavement, holes, wastewater landmines, fire hydrant trip traps...
It was unnerving, in a way, to not see the impromptu restaurants, chaotic scenes of activity. There’d been many times when I’d lamented slogging around the overcrowded sidewalks or cursed a kamikaze motorbike under my breath. But now that they were gone, it was eerie and surprisingly unsettling. Glancing over the city’s emptiness, its desolation, I suddenly felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer And I reasoned that it’s the chaos, the insanity of Bangkok that not only makes it challenging to live in, but also gives the city its character. Without the Issan lady selling kebabs, without the granny selling noodles, without the row of motorcycle taxis ready to zip off, and without the pop-up ramshackle restaurants set up from the sidecar of a motorcycle, it just… didn’t feel like Bangkok. Right then I could have been anywhere affected by the Wuhan Virus.
Passing by the touristy businesses was even sadder. There’s nothing sadder than a closed, boarded up souvenir shop, or a bankrupt travel agent. Nothing sadder than seeing happy smiling faces on posters of waterfalls and museums and crocodile parks and realizing that all those tourist attractions are closed. Walking by hotels, restaurants, stores, all shuttered, possibly for good, heavy iron chains hanging on their doors. The chains hanging low, too, like thick lips, metal mouths, the mouths probably all too ready to say something sardonic or morose.
Amazingly, against all reason, I spotted a tanning salon. In downtown Bangkok. A most superfluous business idea! Maybe the worst ever!
However, in contrast to other businesses, the tanning salon remained open! I was perplexed. I was motivated to walk in, see just who would go to a place as sunny as Thailand and sit in a tanning salon, when they could simply step outside and burn themselves bronze. And how was such a place able to keep its doors open during the plague? It couldn’t be real, I figured. I must be imagining things. Too much time in the sun. Surely no one would visit a tanning salon in Bangkok, right?
Then there were the homeless. I’d been living in downtown Bangkok, and I’d seen homeless, here and there, but it was nothing like many Western countries where homelessness is an epidemic of its own.
Nowadays, though, with the plague, the homeless numbers had skyrocketed, and while still not approaching Californian proportions, it was nevertheless striking to see such an increase.
There’d been way more beggars, too. The beggars sitting cross-legged, wai-ing passersby, on overpasses and footpaths, and some of the beggars were aggressive, calling out desperately, in broken English, feigning eating motions, shoveling an
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer imaginary fork to their mouths, crinkling their faces into contorted, pained expressions in hopes of eliciting sympathetic donations.
But most of the homeless I’d see weren’t begging. They were sleeping. They lay supine or balled up, sleeping on slabs of cardboard, in front of abandoned storefronts. The homeless in Bangkok never seemed to have shoes, either, their feet dark and dirty and black as coal.
Across the street from my building, a row of stores, all of them closed, had lines of sleeping homeless in front of them, homeless under stripped awnings, homeless sleeping under “For Rent” or “For Sale” signs and many of the storefronts had been vandalized too, windows bashed and broken, spray-painted in crude graffiti, English curse words.
I wondered who the homeless were, where they came from...
Were they workers, unable to find a new job, unable to voyage home? Certainly a lot of service workers, construction workers, migrant workers had found themselves out of work, without money to return to their villages in the provinces, and had found themselves freshly homeless…
There’d been a couple homeless who were particularly striking. There was one, a woman, maybe 30 or 40 something, who, daily, wore the same dirty blue jeans and a long-sleeved gray sweatshirt, despite the tropical heat.
She had a thick mess of hair that’d been clumped into a wild bush of dreads, almost like a Rastafarian, and she’d been wandering up and down a lengthy pedestrian overpass, every day, her face fixed in a thousand-yard stare.
Sometimes I’d see her sitting in a corner of the overpass, hugging her legs to her chest, rocking herself back and forth. I’d read about a few desperate, despondent locals jumping from overpasses and I hoped to not read anything like that about her.
Another homeless I’d been seeing was a chunky, older woman, maybe 50 to 60.
She lived in the alley next to my building. She’d get naked, in the alley, and wash herself under a garden hose, then use the hose to clean her clothes, which she lay out, in neat rows, on the pavement, to dry in the sun.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer At night, she’d sleep in front of an abandoned karaoke bar, sprawled out, lying on her big belly, in the doorway. The way she slept, how motionless she’d be, it was hard to know if she was alive or dead.
But I definitely knew when she was awake, because I’d hear her, her shrieks, her screaming. I’d hear her talk to herself, or to ghosts. She’d scream, in an explosive, shrill voice, in Thai, lighting up the whole alley with her sounds, her pained cries, her arguments with the air.
And how vociferously she would castigate the air! Often she’d scream and no one would stop her. Though occasionally a neighbor would pop their head out a window and say something, in Thai, to calm her agitated spirit, and then she’d be mostly silent, only murmuring to herself.
By and large, however, the homeless in Bangkok didn’t appear mentally ill. And most didn’t beg. They simply remained silent, sleeping on sidewalks. Just like the city, they were somewhere between barely alive and dead.
WHORES AND JOHNS IN BANGKOK
฿
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer The whore lay on the bed. Nude. Her shaved pussy exposed. Then she eased back into the bedboard, smiling, spreading her legs wider.
I was in the mood. But I lost my train of thought when a hammer drill shattered the silence.
But she didn’t care. Just kept a smile on her heavenly face. And her pointy, pepperoni-sized nipples had hardened.
The whore always smiled, so this wasn’t new. She even smiled when angry, steady beaming like an ad for dental floss…
Forcing the drilling sounds from my mind, I eyed and inspected the wondrous sight of her pussy. Her purplish outer pussy lips had always been curious to me, as one of the lips drooped downward, as if it were a pulled piece of chewing gum. I’d never seen a pussy like that.
Then the air thickened as her shapely legs created a capital V. Her nude brown body aglitter as if she’d been sprinkled in gold dust… Then the room started spinning…
฿฿
When I awoke, my apartment was hot and the whore was gone. As usual, she’d stolen half the fruit from the bowl on the table, plus a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips.
It’s what she does, whenever she leaves. She steals food. Sometimes an entire bottle of milk or orange juice. But she’s never stolen money or anything valuable.
Stories abound about thieving hookers in Thailand. And it can happen.
Especially with streetwalkers. They’re known for going Cardi B, drugging and robbing unsuspecting mongers, tourists. Especially in the red-light districts.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer But mine never stole nothing. Except food.
฿฿฿
I don’t even know her name. Well, I sort of do. But she changes her name every time I see her. One day she’s Erika, then May, then Pop, then Beam, then New. So eventually I stopped calling her by any name and just refer to her as “Teelak,” which translates to “sweetheart” in Thai.
But Teelak never calls me by my name.
Come to think of it, I don’t think she’s ever even asked me for my name…
฿฿฿฿
Following my morning routine, I jumped out of bed, dropped to the laminate floor, and did one hundred push-ups, then one hundred squats and sit-ups.
Then I caught my breath and climbed back in bed, rubbing sleep from my eyes. Then I began a Thai language-learning video on YouTube…
Teelak speaks Thai and English to me. My Thai is minimal and so is her English. But we meet halfway, and translation apps help iron out any communication difficulties.
Whether speaking English or Thai, I’ve noticed Teelak often refers to herself in the third person. And I must admit I find this quirk endearing…
฿฿฿฿฿
The morning was fucking hot. My apartment was even fucking hotter than outside.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer I’d gotten morning wood, so I began masturbating, thinking of the whore, suddenly seized by heady mental images, steamy scenes from our romp last night.
Slathering slippery coconut oil along the shaft of my cock, I sniffed in the sweet lingering scent of her perfume still clinging to my sheets...
Teelak is fucking hot... Her skin is pure gold. Besides her oddly shaped pussy lip, and the crescent-shaped scar on her elbow from a motorcycle accident, there really isn’t a flaw about her. Her body is svelte yet soft and curvy and well-proportioned. Her ass, tits and legs could have been crafted by a sculptor. She’s basically a living sexdoll. A little gold fuck-machine…
Moreover, her face is strikingly beautiful. Like a Buddhist angel. Like an ornate painting on a temple wall…
I once asked why she never modeled or acted, with those looks, and she said that plenty of girls look “better than her” and that her skin is “too dark.”
Apparently darker-complexion girls like her are less popular in Thailand, Asia as a whole.
But to me, the farang, with those curves and those cheekbones she couldn’t be any more beautiful…
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer
฿฿฿฿฿฿
My a/c cut off again and the sound of hammer drilling returned, filling my apartment with grinding noise and a tremendous vibration. So I put in my earbuds. Then I padded over to the balcony, pulled apart the French doors, and waved away a waft of exhaust fumes from a motorsai buzzing by below…
The balcony is where I often am. I like to sit out and sip whisky, smoke ganja, listen to hardcore hip hop, or meditation music… And watch the whores…
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer My balcony overlooks a row of bars across the street. Including where Teelak works.
She sits outside the bar with three or four heavily tattooed working ladies, and the ladies stare ropes, catcall and cajole male passersby through a hive of excited voices, explosions of laughter and high-pitched screams, with their mating calls of: “Hellooô, hansum man!” The bargirls offering expats and sex tourists alike drink specials and other…
(Teelak’s solicitations tend to be somewhat tame compared to the ladyboys at the bar next to hers… Like many working ladyboys, they’re known to engage in highly lubricious, aggressive offers of sexual services. At times literally seizing male pedestrians by the arm and playing tug-of-war, fighting to pull the passerby into the bar; and even occasionally grabbing male passersby by the nuts or buttocks…)
But on this smoggy, hot and humid monsoon season morning, with the sky gray as a clam, I didn’t see my Teelak anywhere…
When Teelak isn’t with me, that’s where she is. Across the street, under the awning, perched on a stool by the bar’s front door. Or she’s inside the bar.
Or over at the adjacent hourly hotel, in the tiny room she rents there, where she services her customers.
I wonder if she’s with a customer now.
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Back inside, I clicked on the a/c and a puff of cool air swept over me. Then I pulled out my earbuds and found the hammer drilling had ceased.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer But my heart skipped a beat when I saw my apartment had a strange visitor- one of the whore’s johns from a fortnight ago.
Normally the johns that frequent Teelak’s bar fit the typical Thailand “sex tourist” or “sexpat” profile: bald, floppy gut, hairy… The type, generally speaking, that one might expect to find in Bangkok, Phuket or Pattaya paying for sex.
But this customer stood out in that he was a young man, 20 to 23 years of age, tallish, and in good shape, handsome too, with a sort of 1998 Justin Timberlake look, that curly, ramen noodle hair thing going on.
Now the john stood in my apartment, which was curious. He was in camo shorts, a white wifebeater and knockoff Gucci flip-flops, and his face was screwed into a goofy smirk.
Then he vanished. Then reappeared next to me, aglow, a spectral silver cast silhouetting his cut, muscular frame.
As I sat down at the table, the effulgent young john sat down next to me, and I poured him a coffee mug full of Japanese whisky, then poured a tall glass for myself.
I slugged back a big gulp of whisky, and as the whisky warmed my stomach, I thought of Bukowski and Pete from Private Dancer and wondered what they’d do in this situation…
Then I returned my attention to the young john and hoped he’d used a rubber, especially since I knew the whore had her slip-ups. Oh yes, I knew that for sure…
My buddy Tony from the Irish bar says that he’s been with over one hundred hookers, most of whom he hit raw. And that he “never caught nothing” and that you’ll only catch AIDS if you “put it in the dirt patch…”
(Still, I can’t help but recall the classic Eddie Murphy stand-up bit from Raw, ironically, and posit that regularly fucking hookers without a condom is akin to playing Russian Roulette with your dick…)
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer ((Tony also confided he avoided using condoms with hookers because hookers and brothels collect the condoms, sometimes give or sell the sperm to single Thai women wishing to have a mixed-race, lighter skin baby, and that that could be used for blackmail or to extort a farang…))
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Young JT, my eskimo brother, never said a word. Wouldn’t drink hair of the dog either. He just sat calmly, slouching in the shield-shaped chair, smirking at me, right in the spot where I’d bent the whore over the table last week...
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Some asshole once told me that if you have sex with someone, especially unprotected sex, then you’re having sex with everyone they had sex with. If that’s the case, then ’98 JT and me have fucked thousands.
I sipped my smoky Japanese whisky, neat, and said to young Justin Timberlake, “Think of how many eskimo brothers we have.” Glancing at him, across the table, his eyes glazed over in a way that reminded me of frosted glass…
“Think of packing a football stadium with all our eskimo brothers… All of us naked as skeletons… With Beam alone on the stage… her in the spotlight… the cynosure… her stripping to “Wet Ass Pussy” for the whole fucking football stadium… her in that burgundy thong she wears… her pulled pussy lip fighting the fabric… her twerking to pyrotechnics… She could be the new fucking Madonna…”
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Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer When I get too drunk, I’ll go Al Gore with the fuzzy mathematics and attempt to craft a hypothesis about how many people Teelak has fucked.
If she does one, two, or three dudes a day, that’s maybe 60 per month.
Then that’s 720 men she fucks in a year. And she’s been in Bangkok for 10
years, she said, so… that’s roughly 7,200 men she fucked.
Then there might have been days where she fucked 5 or 6 men. Maybe 7
or 8. Perhaps a busy day, fucking 10 people, so it could be more...
(I talked to Tony about this, and he said “numerology” is why whores aren’t often mad if a john prematurely ejaculates… more time for the next customer… And that he doesn’t think about a pussy’s mileage or a whore’s prior customers because “anything” could be going up or down, in and out of a pussy- dicks, dildos, tongues, fingers, fists, babies, piss, queefs, tampons, you-name-it, so “why worry” and “just enjoy the rental.”) Then there are customers she doesn’t even fuck. Lonely geezers who go to her bar just for conversation or to sit with someone as they drink, so they don’t have to be alone.
Teelak told me, too, how she had a “customer grandpa” who “couldn’t fuck anymore” and that he sometimes paid her $300 to keep him company for the day, come over to his condo to cook him lunch…
But when I go full retard, get fucking fucktard drunk, I ruminate, contemplate Teelak’s past, and I’ll wonder if she’s in any amateur videos on YouPorn. Or if my Teelak is on “Asian Street Meat” being given the sobriquet “cum-guzzling slut” as she gets skull-fucked…
And I’ll flashback to urban legends, stories I heard of Indian and Japanese guys into gangbanging hookers. And I’ll wonder if she has ever had group sex, been fucked by more than one guy at a time…
… In a way, she’s like a porn star…
She certainly fucks like a porn star…
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer
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My buddy Tony told me that he’s been seeing professionals for the last five years. Because they’re better in bed. And that he finally arrived at an age where he’d tired of the games, tired of the chase, and that with “pay for play”
it “keeps things simple.”
Tony said he really went down this route after watching a buddy of his lose $100,000 to a bargirl sinsot (dowry) scam. And that the “poor geezer then
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer lost his mind,” became a born-again Christian and had taken to riding a bicycle around Sukhumvit Road, brandishing a crucifix, like a rifle, shouting nonsensical blessings at random passersby…
Tony told me that the sex industry in Thailand is different. That there’s not much human trafficking and that “all the women in the foreigner-facing sex industry are over 20” and that the “fiddlers” from the 90s and early 00s got chased out of Southeast Asia, and that today’s women choose the profession, and that many have husbands and boyfriends and that some even have office jobs, normal jobs.
Tony says that “aside from blowjobs,” he doesn’t look “down on whores.”
He thinks that a lot of dudes would do the profession too if they could get paid to fuck women. He’s also sure that it’s a job that will one day be automated, and probably without much public outcry.
“But could the fuckbots provide companionship?” I asked. To which Tony grunted and went on to say that not all whores have the gift of gab and some are without poker faces. That it’s easy to see their disinterest or discontent… That he gets “the hell outta there” if they’re cold.
But Teelak is a thespian. I can never tell what she’s thinking.
I feel like I know her and yet I don’t know her.
I do know a little about her background.
I know her hometown has a name I can’t pronounce and is a remote farming village in the northeast of Thailand, the area known as “Isaan.”
