Saturday, September 25, 2010

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.

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