by Andy de Fonseca
It took several seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dim, reddish light that pulsated through the mixture of cigarette smoke and dry-ice mist wafting throughout the room. In the absence of one large stage there were several cages placed about; chairs circled them, occupied by bald men in deep red robes. The pumping music he could feel vibrating all the way into his large intestine not only discouraged conversation, but drowned out the self-loathing.
The old man searched among the throng of identical looking patrons but easily found him. No hair. Red robes. A perfect match. The young man was intently watching the caged dancer, who was no taller than a few inches. Her enormous hands, many times the size of her minuscule body, were as big as her cherry lips, both of which she used sublimely in her dance of seduction. She twirled her fingers, playing with them as a dancer would use large, feather fans to hide herself and toy with the audience. The other cages were occupied by similar dancers: all miniature, each with their own bulbous attribute and special way to use them.
“Ah, the homunculi,” the old monk sighed, causing the young man to jump in his chair.
“Fuck. Hi, lama.”
The old voice refused to fight with the blaring booty-humping lyrics, and instead cut cleanly through to the intended listener. “Chyogam, you sign up for lessons today. Your mind should be clear, pure.”
“Yeah. About that. Celibacy just isn’t my…” his voice trailed off as another homunculus joined the cage. This one, just as short as the other, immediately flopped on her back and put her colossal feet in the air, beckoning the watchers with each carefully painted toe. “Come on, baby, show me your motor cortex.”
“Chyogam.”
The young monk tore his eyes away once more. “I have nothing to offer the world. My path to Enlightenment would be selfish.”
“Not everyone is a Mahayanist; it takes great control and discipline to venerate the mighty bodhisattvas. You would take the path of the Hinayanist. Though an inferior vehicle down the path to Enlightenment, it is still a vehicle.”
“Your car isn’t that great, I don’t know why you keep bragging about it.”
A deep breath from the old monk. “You can still find a way down the Mahayana path. Simply find that connection to humanity that drives you.” He puffed his chest. “And the Prius is a fantastic car.”
The chiming of bells sent the room full of monks into hoots and hollers and cat calls. A unified chant grew from them as they banged on the tables for rhythm. Spotlights weaved around the room, building tension.
“COR-TI-CAL! COR-TI-CAL! COR-TI-CAL!”
The lights stopped on the center cage. Inside, a cluster of peacock feathers, slightly quivering, covered the main event. The monks silenced, with the exception of the occasional ‘WHOOT!’.
A slow, soft, deep rhythm began to pump. The mass of feathers began to gyrate with it. Dipping low, swaying side to side, thrusting at just the right times. Then, one by one, disfigured fingers popped out from beneath the feathers, each one sending cheers through the crowd. A feather flicked away, revealing an enormous blue eye, the long, thick, black lashes batting slowly. At the top of the mass of feathers, a foot poked through, twisting to show off every silken, glistening curve. Another feather was moved, and out protruded lips large enough to lie on; the bright red gloss could have stopped traffic. A pink tongue grazed the plump, moistened puckers, licking the entire rim of the mouth, which was formed into a perfect ‘O’.
With a loud burst of throbbing music, the rest of the peacock feathers flew off, revealing the distorted burlesque queen in all her disfigured beauty, a living sensory map erotically swaying and thrusting in perfect harmony to the music and erupting shouts from the aroused audience.
“Lady Cortical Homunculus…” the young monk exhaled. “A perfect representation of the body within the brain.” He shivered.
The old monk placed a hand on Chyogam’s shoulder. “It is time.”
Chyogam reeled back upon stepping outside, the blinding sun burned into his retinas.
“Hurry. Or we will be late.”
Chyogam took a longing glance back at the windowless building before getting into the Prius.
Andy de Fonseca is a geek. She has always been this way, despite numerous attempts throughout childhood to curb her love of anime, video games, dragons, and the unholy songs of science. For the month of April, royalties for The Cheat Code for God Mode will be donated to Ride for MS and The New York Stem Cell Foundation. If you haven’t picked up your copy of The Cheat Code yet, now is a great time!
This post may contain affiliate links. Further details, including how this supports the bizarro community, may be found on our disclosure page.
