As he copied the erotic novella, he was clueless about the chain of events he was setting into motion. There was no doubt his shriveled ego would be temporarily inflated by taking credit for the pornographic masterpiece he stole, but would he trade that minor faux-victory for the intense pain soon to come? Apparently, he would.
When Olga read her own writing on the screen under the pen name, “Play Grist”, her thick Polish blood began to boil. Translating that detailed storyline from her head to words took her weeks and weeks of concentrated effort. She made her living as a maid, but she became herself as an author. She gripped the edges of her oak desk so tightly that splinters sprinkled onto the carpet. Her anger had a target – her target had no clue.
He signed on to read yet another glowing review of his ill-gotten literary triumph, and leaned back in his chair with satisfaction. He decided that he ought to reward himself with a vigorous jerking of his tiny penis. Although the odor that struck his nostrils when he unzipped his fly was enough to strip paint from a ship, he was too high to care. He gripped his pecker with both fingers and began to attempt penile reveille. When the calluses on his fingers began to tear the blisters on his miserable dick he had to stop. “Oh well”, he consoled himself, “it’s the thought that counts.”
When Olga approached her client with the weird internet stuff all over his house to help track down an old friend, he was only too happy to show off the various methods he had developed to get data on people. Within 20 minutes of sitting down in front of his home-made super computer, Olga had the real name, address, social security number and shoe size of the one that had done her wrong. The web junky client almost fainted when Olga offered to pay him back with a back rub and reach around, so he got a month’s worth of free house cleanings instead.
Once hooked on plagiarism, the addiction scrambles quickly into the base synapses of the brain. Not content to steal the work of one author – the slimy toadstool seeks out new works to tarnish with his name. He is only mildly put off when he gets severely flamed for claiming he is the original author of “A Treatise Concerning the Principles of Human Knowledge”. Obviously confused that living in Berkeley and being Berkeley are two distinct things, he continues to insist that he is working on part two, “Principles of Humans Who Take It Up The Ass From Their Twin Cousins”. The lashing he receives at the hands of other online folk only impassions him to more aggressive acts – and he begins to plan his burglary of the Library of Congress.
The 2,200 mile drive was soothing for Olga – thoughts of the lovely Spring countryside of her youth, the wind in her hair as she leaned out the window of the bus like a panting dog, and wondering what octave range the screams of her victim would cover. As she stepped off the bus 2 blocks from the address (cue menacing revenge music here), he focus was laser-like. There are fewer more determined people than pissed-off menial labor workers with menstrual cramps. To Olga, the walk from the bus stop took as long as the bus ride – every step as if in molasses, every breath a background symphony of ferocity, each tick of her Rolex a countdown to vengeance!
He couldn’t believe what he was reading on the screen – just a week ago he was a god of the world wide web. Now his mighty kingdom was crumbling under the weight of his exaggerations. Not only was his deity being questioned, now even his humanity was being doubted by an endless stream of skeptical posters.
“I am Edgar Allen Poe!” he screamed as he jackhammered his forehead onto the keyboard over and over “I am a fuckin’ genius!”
Over his screaming he didn’t hear the wood frame of his door give way to Olga’s boot. It was only the brass deadbolt skidding past him on the floor that told him something was amiss. He looked up just in time to notice the intruder had tits the size and shape of bowling balls. She didn’t mince words with the stunned little troll, picking him up and slinging him over her shoulder like a sack of onions.
“Shit, I might finally get lucky.” He told himself “This is just like in that article I wrote for Penthouse Forum.” Again, confusing something he read for something he wrote. Still, he had no instinct of fear – only relief that his cherry was finally going to be popped. When Olga flipped him into the bathtub on his head, he finally understood this might not be as pleasant as he had hoped.
Olga learned to hog-tie calves during her squatter days, and this squirrelly runt was about the same challenge. Before he could say, “what the fu-“, she had his hands firmly wrapped to his ankles behind his back. If he had time to catch his breath, it left him again when Olga grabbed his semi-soiled shorts and tore them off in one violent tug. She paused for a moment to regain her focus – she had a plan for this douchebag. Her eyes found the plunger next to the crapper and she snapped it over her knee with a sharp crack. The sharp pinch on his neck made him cry out and Olga placed the busted wooden handle in his mouth like a bit. As she cinched the leather strap around his head she took a step back and a deep breath. He was ready to be cleansed.
She yanked him up to his knees and tied the strap holding his brace onto the shower arm. Olga stepped into the tub with him and began to take off her camouflage pants. His hopeful look turned sour when she shed her panties to reveal a protruding clit that looked like a fist. She then proceeded to piss on the plagiarist. A long, hot, almost brownish piss that she had been holding in for 2,200 miles and 2 blocks. The stream bounced off his cheek, splashed into his eyes, dribbled into his hair and down the back of his neck. It was sticky and smelly and heavy. He gorked into his own mouth a bit as she finished.
The stars he saw when he woke up were multi-colored and dashing across his vision like cartoon thunderbolts. He felt the burning sensation of the mark on his face where Olga had punched him into unconsciousness upon finishing her urination. He must have been out for just a few moments because she was still shaking her hand when his eyes reopened. “Przygotować ponieważ strapienie, złodziej.” Olga muttered to herself as she donned the studded leather vest her auntie gave her as a sweet-sixteen birthday gift. The menacing “shiiiirk” her knife made as she unsheathed it caused him to wet himself again.
She carved away the remnants of his pants with precision – seeking not to accidentally harm what she meant to remove. His unwashed groin, a sea of dreadlocked pubic doormat, hid his retreating cock so effectively Olga wondered if he was actually male. After 10 minutes of probing to find his winkie, she decided that making him live with a tool that wretched would be its own punishment. He got a stiffy thinking about how someone finally touched him there – and Olga couldn’t help but point and giggle.
She dragged his scrawny body out of the tub, letting it plop onto the tile with a wet thud. She lifted the toilet seat, yanked his head into the bowl and tied the strap around the back of it. He heard her shuffle through her backpack for a moment before she startled him with her prized possession. He’d never seen a dildo that long, that wide and that black before. On the side, Olga had carved the words, “COPY THIS!” She wiggled it in front of his face a few times before she used it like a bludgeon on the back of his head until he drifted back into unconsciousness.
While he napped, she loosened the tie on his ankles and retied one ankle to the doorknob, and one to the hot water handle on the other side of the room. She then lit a cigar and puffed it offhandedly while she waited for him to wake. As her patience wasn’t what it used to be, she put the half-smoked thing out on his left ass cheek. He woke and made a kind of animal-hit-by-a-truck sound.
~click~ Olga snapped the vinyl love stick onto the groin mount.
He thought, “…this would make a great story.”
“griiiiiip” Olga grabbed one of his ass cheeks in each of her gloved hands and spread him apart.
He thought, “…I’ll bet no one’s written about this before.”
STAB! Olga rammed her favorite toy as hard and deep as his anatomy would allow.
He fainted again.
This time he woke to the taste of his own blood and ass as Olga had retied him with the back of his head against the rim of the toilet and she was stuffing his throat with that ugly mamba. His ass was resting in a puddle of some sort and Olga was grunting, “najeść się!” with every thrust. When his gag reflex finally caused him to upchuck the bowl of nachos he’d had for breakfast, even Olga had to take a break. But it was only to prepare for her coup de grace.
The buzzing sound of her electric pencil tattoo machine was unfamiliar to him. It sounded like thousands of miniature bees. He tried to squirm away as she pressed the vibrating needle into his forehead, but she backed away and punched his top two teeth into his mouth to calm him down. She finished her permanent artwork as he faded in and out of consciousness.
When the police found him he was still tied to the toilet with his bloodied face inside his computer monitor. Olga had put it on his head like a party hat and kicked him in the face through the screen as she departed. His scrambled intestines, shattered nose, cracked skull and dislocated joints healed in a few months. His broken spirit never did. The curse he endured for the rest of his life was trying to explain to people what the large tattoo on his forehead meant, but he couldn’t find the words. He died indigent and a good-intentioned state worker engraved the saying on his tombstone thinking it a mantra for him, and a fitting tribute . . . “not Poe”.