User:Aleister/The Aristocrats
In the year of our Lord, 1947, an underpaid well laid talent scout excitedly toured Europe, stopping at every town, pub, and outhouse to advertise that he was looking for the finest new act on the Continent to take to America. We join him as he drunkenly sits in a makeshift office one day, a medium size office filled with aquariums in the back of a Pet Shop just outside of Kiev.
A knock on the door startles him from his chronic daydreams of riches and glory.
"Come on in" he says, using his grown-up voice.
The door opens and six people enter, seemingly but mistakingly a poor family of mildly depressed and awkwardly dressed vagabonds from the steppes. They shuffle in uncomfortably, the parents slight of stature, eyes downcast. Three equally shy young daughters, dressed head to toe in unrevealing shawls and long plain dresses stiff with dirt, acting to even the most oblivious of viewer like they really don't want to be there, and the teenage boy, outwardly withdrawn but looking at the talent agent with a twinkle in his eye and winking like he'd just eaten a canary and a sun-dried yellow finch. They all have numbers tattooed on their forearms, indicating that they'd been guests of the German government during the dust up a couple of years earlier.
"Can I help you?" the talent agent asks, not quite ready to offer them a drink.
"Sir, if I may be one so bold, maybe we can help you," the father softly says, still looking at the floor. "We are a family act, sir, and have been practicing for over two years for an opportunity such as this."
"Well yeah, yeah, sure my friend. Just relax and show me what you've got," the gray-haired agent says, readjusting his belt, lighting a cigar, and silently deciding to take the boy to America and leave the rest of this song and dance act to fend for themselves.
The mother shyly squats and shits on the floor directly through the rectum of a six-month old calf stretched wide by the dandruffed covered hands of her husband, dips mice into her hot feces, and eats them loudly three at a time while humming the 5th aria from Wagner's Le Tortino in B-major and C-minor. Wiping her mouth with the skill of a violinist, she carefully picks out and ties the three decapitated tails into a knot which she inserts into her sons urethra. The girls greedily tear what the agent now recognizes as sperm splattered gray dresses off to reveal - and expertly put on display - their sufficiently supple bodies. They reach out simutaneously in what looks very much like ballet to place dabs of mother's thick black foul-smelling peanut-spotted feces on their nipples, earlobes, and clits, and masturbate themselves and each other as fast as donkeys dancing the lindy on a threadmill. The father and son noisily lick poo chunks off the girls nips while adding their own hand-dug and body snot to the pile. After simultaneously cumming in three-part harmony in one of the most beautiful operatic performances the agent had ever heard, bringing a tear and an involuntary yank on Mr. Johnny, the daughters lather their jawbones with the inside of a recently killed red panda, three-way triple-dip long-time French kiss while waltzing, and politely share fungus-covered raisins with each other by shooting them tastefully out of their quims.
The boy ties a snake to his cock and twists its neck till he cums, planting his jizz and the tiny ball of cum-colored mouse tails which fly out right on schedule and to the accompaniment of cheers and soft applause from mother, who proclaims out loud her love for her son and narrowly avoids a backhand by father into a daughter's nostril. The daughter retrieves the gooey flow and mouse-tail pellet and stuffs them deep into their father's ass with a rusty rake (which turns out, by the way, to be rust-tinted watercolor painted onto a collapsible rake which was handmade for them by one of the finest craftsmen in Europe during their temporarily detention in German-controlled Poland during the troubles) as mother loudly poops rancid bowel liquid smack dab into the open wounds on her son's wrists. She cackles like a burnt witch in heat as a daughter jumps the gap, stuffs a tortoise into mother's mouth, squeezes the shell until the thing inside is forced out through the head hole and the two front leg holes, and pushes the thing further down ma's throat with a calloused skeletal elbow. This shuts mom up and provides dad a slimy hard place with easy cock-pumping access, "Important in this day-and-age" the son reminds his hottest sister.
While fucking the tortoise shell and standing on one foot on his wife's bony shoulders so as to exhibit balance and grace, dad whips out a decaying dead parrot from a daughter's anus, smears it across his sons genitals, and whispers sweet nothings into his other daughters mouths. One of them burps and all hell breaks loose.
The family separates into the corners of the room and, on a deafening silent signal, run as fast as they can towards each other and everybody runs faster and nobody lifts a hand to soften the perfectly timed choreographed single impact blow as they all smash into everybody else at the exact same moment, heads crack and bleed, the smallest daughter pisses herself, and mother has sustained a broken rib which the others pounce on like wolves. One of the girls, bleeding profusely from her mother's period, orders brother to cum in her mouth or die trying. He pumps her face-cunt, screwing up and bruising sis's tongue and larynx, and purposely scrapes his cock on her broken crooked teeth until it and they bleed in a constant flow. Mother masturbates with the neck of a teapot, pours the daughters a cup, and as they drink it one of them coughs up some phlegm, which is distributed equally.
Just then a baby crawls in and is instantly surrounded by the loving daughters as it unsteadily rises to its feet, giggles, and prepares to walk towards mother. "Babies first step!" father and brother scream in unison, kneecap the baby with the business end of a ten-gallon aquarium, and assure everyone that "He won't try that again!"
Suddenly dogs dressed as Nazis carry fetch-it-good-boy! balls and orange squeeze toys shaped like dildos into the room. The son mounts a mastiff, daughters eagerly get butt raped by German Shepards, baby writhes alone on the floor, and exactly two minutes and twenty-five seconds later dogs and humans alike howl like wolves for a minute and a half in one beautiful continuous note as ma eats out a bitch and dad fucks fur. Brother finishes, gives his lover a donkey punch, tears off its teats, and dips his dick into puppy blood to trace a map of the Normandy invasion onto his father's quivering ass.
A bag labeled "Jew dust" is in play, and the family portrays future generations condemning the holocaust by spreading war-era oven-fleshcake onto a shaven eviscerated kitten. A daughter wails, father sobs uncontrollably, son renders his shirt ashunder, and mother fists her two youngest while singing the German national anthem in a very bad imitation of Bing Crosby. The family suddenly stands up as one, forms a perfect Star of David with their arms, cocks, legs and tits, and scream in unison "Next Halloween in Jerusalem!"
They quickly line up in a row before the agent, hold hands, and shyly glance at the floor.
"Sir, did you like?" father asks softly.
"Wonderful! Wonderful!" the talent agent says, clapping and crying from the emotional experience he'd just received and vowed to never forget. "Praytell, what do you call your act?"
Father steps forward, hands generously spread atop his thrust-forward hip, and grandly swoops his left arm in his family's general direction as the daughters curtsey, eldest son bows regally from the waist, his youngest son does a soft shoe and a misdirect while juggling four used condums, and his wife twirls and bows low while extending her own left arm to the slippery wood of the floor. Father looks at them proudly, faces the agent, brandishes a few of the props high over his head, and says in a rich baritone voice reminiscent of grand spaces and ancient traditions, of continental courtesy and old money sophistication, echoing now across the small pet shop office like the voice of the centuries themselves:
