I went and saw the movie Spider-Man on opening day down at Tinseltown,
where, as you must know, all the junkies crawl around outside,
pressing their AIDS-stricken hands against the windows wondering
what the hell kind of stores are inside, what kind of stuff they
could buy, if they had money and if the security would let them
pass. What they don't know is that the mall is basically empty.
It's a ghost mall. There's probably no other mall in the world
like it. A fear of sickness, of crime, of junk, has starved the
mall of customers. It is a junk-sick mall, something that old
Bill Burroughs could have approved of, grimly. The dumb fuck who
leases a room in that building might as well spend it all on heroin
from the dude down the street with his thumbs up his ass-crack
waiting for the next delivery. There's as many boarded-up storefronts
inside Tinseltown as there are on Hastings street. And if a junky
does get in all they want is a moist taco from the food court,
and maybe check out a movie. The only thing in Tinseltown on Friday
May 3rd was Spider-Man, every half hour from 10:45 am til Midnight.
On a field trip to a billion dollar lab studying--for no apparent
reason--those eight-legged fuzzy bugs, Peter Parker (Toby Maguire)
is polluted by the hot venom of a "super-spider" while his hard-on
for Mary Jane (Kirsten Dunst) almost cracks the lens of the
camera dangling from his neck. His DNA coils and mixes with
the DNA of said spider, and Parker twists the strap of the camera
around his neck and jacks himself off into a sticky petri dish
while auto-asphyxiating himself. "Give me strength," he gasps
and slings his first web. I was impressed with Sam Raimi's direction,
very subtle, as always.
At this point the juice began to take effect and I had to
get up from my seat and micturcate. "Where's your fucking bathroom?"
I asked a little brown stool of a boy in Tinseltown costume.
Pointing to the left, he said, "And around that corner."
There were only two urinals in the bathroom, close together,
and an anemic creature, all spinal cord and saliva glands, was
standing at one of the bowls squeezing pee from the ulcer on
his groin. I sidled up next to the mugwump and started to piss.
"Nice cock," the thing said.
"Watch your mouth," I said.
"I'll strangle you for a dollar," the thing said. "I'm good,"
he continued, "I diddle the mayor, and he pays me more. I'm
offering a deal."
"I'm here to watch a movie," I answered as pragmatically as
possible. Back on the silver screen Spider-Man descended upside-down
from a taut ejaculation and, in the rain, Mary Jane rushed to
meet him. It was raining (like I said) and in a movie, weather
is always organized long in advance. The wet cotton membrane
of Mary Jane's pink shirt let her tits scream out from underneath,
trapped, anxious and swollen with abject passion. Still upside-down,
Spider Man pulled back the skin of his mask to reveal his fat
pink mouth, and shot his tongue so far down her throat he could
taste her ovaries.
Meanwhile I continued to eat my greased popcorn, the rush
I was getting from hydrogenated extract of junky mucous was
making the movie more life-like. The shit tasted delicious on
each popped kernel. I was tingling. Whenever I saw Willem Defoe's
teeth I almost felt them, like bone-carved buttons, against
my chest. His portrayal of the Green Goblin should win him a
fuck in the ass.
There's a point in the movie when Mary Jane walks out of the
diner where she's working and there's a shot of her long tender
white legs and they look so good that it makes you want to push
her face down on the hardwood floor of a high school gymnasium
and kick her thighs apart and do her as hard as possible, and
it was at this point in the film that I began to smell the mugwump
behind me, trying to dig his erection through my comfortable
seat cushion, to push himself straight up my rectum and in to
my reptilian core. The dank and hairy length of my perineum
was tingling, as the pinched rictus of my ass seethed and worried.
I opened a box of Glossette Peanuts and began to shove them
down my throat in an attempt to calm my nerves.
"We'll meet again, Spider Man," the Green Goblin said, and
suddenly the mugwump was inside me, straight through the lumbar-supporting
Tinseltown theatre seating. My head jerked back and relaxed
against the head-rest. The mugwump leaned forward and whispered
delicately in my ear, a bunch of sexual nonsense, and advance
notice of sales that would appear at various stores in the mall.
I asked the thing, "Do you take Interac?" And in reply it
said, "Of course, and Visa, Mastercard..." and then, as if I'd
asked another question, it carried on, "...I was a young boy
once and heard the siren call of easy money and women and tight
boy-ass and lands sake don't get my blood up I am subject to
tell a tale make your cock stand up and yipe for the pink pearly
way of young cunt or the lovely brown mucous-covered palpitating
tune of the young boy-ass play your cock like a recorder..."
And someone next to me with a little child dressed in Spider-Man
pijammas sitting on his bare lap--evidently fucking the kid
the way I used to play horseback rider with my grandad when
I was the kid's age--while being shot full of speed by a woman
in nurse's uniform with AIDS sores on her lips and arms, said,
"Shhh, we're trying to watch the movie."