Saturday, September 25, 2010

Anal Rapist: Lindsay Lohan

Part of doing any job well is good research. It is amazing how a single piece of data means almost nothing, but combined with several others, becomes a threat of massive proportions.

For example, the Lohan. It's not hard to find out where she parties, as the list of LA clubs hits Perez Hilton and the tabloids every other week. It's also not that difficult to find a picture of her car, and then one of those celebrity maps that shows her summer house in the hills of Los Angeles.

Hunched over a motorcycle with a chronic carburetor clog, I waited until I could calculate the time it took her to go up winding Mulholland Drive to get to her own turn, and then into her expensive bungalow. These details are important.

The next Thursday, I waited while the bars closed and even most of the Hollywood Hills shut up for the night. At 3:30, I spotted her Mercedes coupe winding slowly up the curvy roads, and crouched lower by the roadside. I wore a ghillie suit I'd picked up at the touristy army surplus store, dressed like an anonymous tourist and paying that price, and kept my red-filtered LED flashlight at my side. When she was almost upon me, I yanked my hand upward.

This yank had two effects: first, it opened the sliding door of the cage in which another purchase, a friendly and adorable rabbit, waited with fearful eyes made worse by my frequent slapping of the cage sides; second, it unleashed a spray of everyday furniture cleaner, producing a cloud of fog through which she drove.

Even her alcohol-numbed senses snapped to attention as the cute bunny rabbit hopped directly in the path of her wheels, and Lohan yanked the car savagely to one side, colliding with a convenient tree and knocking her head into the exploding airbag. Unconscious, she lolled back in the car seat as I approached.

I cast the ghillie suit into the woods, now dressed in the uniform of an auto shop nearby. My fake moustache was back as were contact lenses that changed my eyes to a radiant green. My gloved hands unbuckled her seatbelt and lifted her from the seat. She frothed a little, and spread her legs slightly in her summer dress, probably remembering a sexual encounter from earlier that evening.

I picked up her dead weight, ignoring her incoherent mumbling, and carried her to my motorcycle. I ripped off her pretty dress and sweaty panties, forcing her into a leather riding costume, and then secured a helmet on her head. I then tied her hands across my belly with a bandana, and set off on the bike, with her behind me like an adoring passenger. We passed the emergency vehicles heading up the hill.

Near the bottom of the hill is a small park. There was the trailer I'd picked up earlier by picking its lock and unhooking it from its car; on it, I put a license plate from another trailer I'd spotted in a body shop lot, on its way to the junkyard. These two details matched up just enough for a busy cop to bypass us after dialing in the plate.

Inside, I bent her over the stuffed cot they call a bed. She was reviving, so I removed a self-injector loaded with a carefully calculated dose of halothane and popped it into her nubile flesh. She gasped, then the eyes rolled upward and struggle ceased. I removed the modified enema bottle, with a chemical heater within, that I use to administer lubricant, and squirted it all over her quivering anus.

Then my assault began in earnest. For a few moments, I was the raging wind, the tempestuous oceans, and the intensity of fire. Then I came to earth like a ton of bricks, surging forward with an animal impulse I could not control, as the limp ragdoll beneath me moaned in her chemical sleep.

I cleaned up all forensic evidence, sprayed a mixture of ammonia and benzyl sulfonamide over any surfaces I had contacted, and withdrew from the van. In the morning she would awaken with a widened entrance to her rectum but only slightly dazed, and stumble up the hill, where an army of publicists would converge to safeguard "their" asset.

Anal Rapist: Justin Bieber

Of all my places to find targets, industries like entertainment where they make money by formula are the easiest, because everyone has gotten fat and lazy doing the same thing over and over again. They don't notice a dedicated penetration.

At the backstage of a Bieber show, I flashed an ID card (made with Photoshop at Kinko's and pasted over one of their copy cards) to the security guard and she glanced at the flowers I carried and my thrift store uniform, then waved me past, her eyes already elsewhere perhaps on the passing celebrities. People gave me directions to the dressing room.

"Just leave them in there and He will see them later," said the self-important tour manager in her red-frame square spectacles. I put the flowers on the counter by the mirrors, then stopped to check my hair, at which point the tour manager was halfway out the door. I went into a closet instead.

When I heard lots of chatter, and that trademark squeaky voice, I knew the moment had arrived. I slipped the mask from my pocket and held it over my nose and mouth, then pressed the remote in my pocket. An explosion of gas -- a mixture of aerosolized fentanyl and acetylcholine blockers -- filled the room, and I heard soft dense impacts seconds later as the inhabitants hit the floor.

My hands wrapped in latex sought the door with tingling anticipation. I removed cable ties from my pocket and used them to secure the two make-up artists and the image consultant. Then I locked the door and turned to Bieber.

His gamine face in peaceful repose looked up at me as I turned over the body. I encountered that moment I have every time I dominate a celebrity, like I am looking at an Icon itself turned into flesh. I waved away the emotion. I had to act quickly.

Bieber wore some kind of track suit in a feeble bid to get street cred. I pulled down the pants, admiring the lace panties, then ripped off the jacket and stretchy t-shirt to look at his naked torso. Some kind of strange curving scar crossed the chest, and I made a note to research it later.

But then I shoved him over an upturned chair, whipped out the modified enema bottle with internal heater and sprayed lubricant onto his darling pucker. He gasped and moaned out a single note, then mumbled something incoherent as my condom-wrapped member raged into his inner cavity. His little hands beat against the chair, then fell limp.

I continued my assault, widening him and penetrating deeply where others feared to tread. As I reached the apex of experience, after which nothing remains but slow decline, I punched him hard in the back of the head and watched him go entirely limp as my fluid ballooned inside of him.

I carefully cleaned up any forensic evidence, turned my uniform inside out so it resembled that of the firm that always does security for this particular venue, put on sunglasses and removed the electric sprayer from the flowers, closing the door after me as I melded with the slipstream and then left the building.