From 25b94a09b0b00cbb9dadb7c614fabdafed268bd9 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001
From: rsiddharth <s@ricketyspace.net>
Date: Sat, 19 Oct 2019 12:31:53 -0400
Subject: Add nfsw/junk/strayed/intro

---
 nfsw/junk/strayed/intro | 102 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
 1 file changed, 102 insertions(+)
 create mode 100644 nfsw/junk/strayed/intro

diff --git a/nfsw/junk/strayed/intro b/nfsw/junk/strayed/intro
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..fda7996
--- /dev/null
+++ b/nfsw/junk/strayed/intro
@@ -0,0 +1,102 @@
+This small room is filled to the brim
+with TVs stacked on top of each other in
+a magnificent array on the three walls
+of the room. The fourth wall has just
+one large screen.
+
+Each TV is broadcasting a
+young/middle-aged/old woman masturbating
+her brains out. All of them have been
+sexually assaulted by their grandfather
+when they were 5 years old.
+
+The fourth wall is directly opposite to
+you. The screen on it is displaying what
+seems to be a diary entry. It has coffee
+stains.
+
+The diary entry reads:
+
+> So I railed against it, in search of
+> the answer to what the fuck was up
+> with my grandfather doing that to
+> me. What the fuck? What the fuck?
+> What the fuck?
+
+> But I could never shake it. That
+> particular fuck would not be
+> shook. Asking what the fuck only
+> brought it around. Around and around
+> it went, my grandfather’s cock in my
+> hands, the memory if it so vivid, so
+> palpable, so very much a part of
+> me. It came to me during sex and not
+> during sex. It came to me in flashes
+> and it came to me in dreams. It came
+> to me one day when I found a baby
+> bird, fallen from a tree.
+
+> I’d always heard that you’re not
+> supposed to pick up baby birds; that
+> once you touch them their mama won’t
+> come back and get them, but it doesn’t
+> matter if that’s true or not—this bird
+> was a goner anyway. Its neck was
+> broken. Its head lolling treacherously
+> to the side. I cradled it as
+> delicately as I could in my palms,
+> cooing to soothe it, but each time I
+> cooed, it only struggled piteously to
+> get away, terrified by my voice.
+
+> The bird’s suffering would’ve been
+> unbearable for me to witness at any
+> time, but it was particularly
+> unbearable at that moment in my life
+> because my mother had just died. And
+> because she was dead I was pretty much
+> dead too. I was dead but alive. And I
+> had a baby bird in my palms that was
+> dead but alive as well. I knew there
+> was only one humane thing to do,
+> though it took me the better part of
+> an hour to work up the courage to do
+> it: I put the baby bird in a paper bag
+> and smothered it with my hands.
+
+> Nothing that has died in my life has
+> ever died easily and this bird was no
+> exception. This bird did not go down
+> without a fight. I could feel it
+> through the paper bag, pulsing against
+> my hand and rearing up, simultaneously
+> flaccid and ferocious beneath its
+> translucent sheen of skin, precisely
+> as my grandfather’s cock had been.
+
+> There it was! There it was
+> again. Right there in the paper
+> bag. The ghost of that old man’s cock
+> would always be in my hands. But I
+> understood what I was doing this
+> time. I understood that I had to press
+> against it harder than I could
+> bear. It had to die. Pressing harder
+> was murder. It was mercy.
+
+> That’s what the fuck it was. The fuck
+> was mine.
+
+> And the fuck is yours too, WTF. That
+> question does not apply “to everything
+> every day.” If it does, you’re wasting
+> your life. If it does, you’re a lazy
+> coward and you are not a lazy coward.
+
+> Ask better questions, sweet pea. The
+> fuck is your life. Answer it.
+
+> Yours,
+> Sugar
+
+Who is Sugar?
-- 
cgit v1.2.3