The War On Whores

[Shroom Man 777]

Dark night envelops the gritty skyline of Los Angeles. Dotting the endless black are the star-like luminescence from countless buildings and homes and streets, and the arching beams of searchlights.

At the very fringe of the city outskirts, a black obelisk protrudes like an obsidian blade, of steel darker than the night. Atop this grim edifice stands a gargoyle, with iron-feathered wings like that of an angel’s but smeared in tar, the forsaken sentinel of the City of Angels.

I am The Goddamn Crow.

I stand watch high above the dark streets of LA. My town, my city. I’ve been watching. For years. Over the dark streets, the piss-stained alleys. My alleys. All of it.

I’ve been watching.

This is my town, my city.

Los Angeles. The City of Angels. No Man’s Land. A city that lies, infested to the core. My city. The Crow’s City. Not like Crowtalon, the city. Worse than Crowtalon. The city.

Richard Gray Age Twelve sniffed the glue. In his nose. And then he had a dream, a long one, a one long dream about the future. He woke up on the floor, his pants wet, pissed himself. In his pants.

He told me about his dream, or else he’d have to wipe the floor with his own face. Said that there’d be an earthquake. LA would be split off from the US of A, he said. It’d become a No Man’s Land. Evacuated. The city will went nuts. The scum stayed behind, running it like their own country, while the innocents tried to escape from LA.

It’d make life simpler. Because…

This is my life. A world you could never understand.

I am The Goddamn Crow.

The last sane person on Earth.

And this is a war.

The war.

My war.

On Whores.

Wings spread, the Crow leaps off into the night sky. Black on black, gone like a dead ghost.

I fly over the air, cool cold breeze over my face hair. I haven’t shaved. For a month. Every once a while, I’d have to rip off bloody clumps of beard and skin with my bare hands.

I watch the city. And everyone knows I’m watching them. Sunset, everyone hides indoors. A few stay outside. Because they want to die.

Because I am The Goddamn Crow.

Silence. Aside from the wind, all I hear is Richard Gray’s sobbing.

Richard Gray Age Twelve. I don’t like him. Young. Nubile. Supple. Firm but soft. Just like me. When I was young. I got beat, bad. I beat Gray, bad. Hopefully, he’d grow up to be just like his old man, me.

I am his old man.

Because his parents are dead.

Killed by whores.

Whores.

Women aren’t dames. They’re whores. For the last year, I’ve been watching whores. A bunch of whores, a whoring. I watched them scream as drugs and cocks and drugged cocks got stuffed in their mouths. They got beat, bad. Like Richard Gray’s bleeding beak. Then they got pregnant, and their babies got killed. Inside them. They went crazy. The whores went crazy. They killed the men.

And now I kill them.

I see the whores everywhere, but I see three of them now. Back alley. They had a man, a naked man. A naked man smeared in shit. A naked man smeared in shit getting assfucked by a PVC pipe.

The big whore shoves the man’s face in her and squeezes, hard.

Even up in the air, I hear the man’s skull crack.

The whore drops the man, his head looking like a deflated balloon. Or a limp dick.

I drop down from the sky and hover above the ground, like a wraith. I land on a puddle of mud. A puddle of bloody mud. Or muddy blood.

“It’s the Crow!” the three of them shriek.

“Whores,” the Crow mutters under his breath, like a curse.

I am The Goddamn Crow.

I draw my vicious knife. The Crow draws my gun.

The whores fire. Literally.

The lead whore wears iron bras. Nozzles come out of her iron bras and fire comes out of the nozzles that came out of her iron bras. I’ve been watching whores. I know this whore. She turned the fire into a giant flaming cunt and sent the flaming clit at me.

The Crow grits his teeth as he dodges out of the way. I smash through the alley’s wooden boards, shooting back through the wood with my gun.

I can see through walls.

Despite the heat from the burning breasts shooting out flaming clits, and the sizzling of my fried beard, my infrared sees the whores. The other one pulls out a giant machinegun. From her ass. And wears it on her, like a .50 caliber dildo. She fires it on full automatic, turning the wooden alley walls I hide behind into shitty Swiss cheese, while the recoil turns her .50 caliber water-cooled fully automatic dildogun into a vibrator.

I shoot back. But, just this once, hers is bigger than mine.

No one’s is bigger than mine.

One whore. Two whore. Where’s the three whore?

The full moon is blocked out by the clouds, and the clouds are blocked out by the silhouette of a whore. On ice skates, ice skates sharpened to a knife’s edge. She has a katana on one hand, and a chainsword on the other. I shoot at her, but she’s fast. Faster than any species of whore the Crow’s observed. Until now.

She lands, blocking bullets with her katana while lashing out with her chainsword.

The Crow, me, grunts in displeasure as the chainsword teeth cash at my armor. Sparks fly out.

I bitchslap the whore.

The other two are on me.

The fifty-cals hit me in the tits, and the Crow is thrown backwards from the impact, bullets flattening on his armor, forming bat-nipples on my Crowsuit.

I grit my teeth and ready myself to curse.

“Oh I do declare!” the Texas chainsaw massacre whore declares as she comes at me with her chainsword. I dodge, jump back. The Crow parries her katana with my knife. I scream. Scream as her other weapon chainsaws the artificial feathers of my wings.

The Goddamn Crow’s Goddamn Wings are neurally interfaced with his brain. He surgerized these wings into my spine by myself. If Richard Gray saw me run that electric scalpel through my own back, he would’ve shit. No one shits on the Crow’s couch, especially when I’m performing surgery on myself.

I would’ve shoveled that shit back into Gray’s mouth. Used his glue to seal his mouth shut, see what happens when shit gets digested all over again. He couldn’t puke it out. It’d come out of his ass. Would digested shit still come out as shit? Or would it come out as food? Gray would have to find out.

While pondering Richard Gray’s closet-coprophagia, I automatically bitchslap the chain-whore away.

I smile and say something smart, then get a mouthful of pussy. On fire. Flaming pussy. Goddamn pyromaniakinetics. Just like Firestorm. That man-whore.

WHORES! I think that and I scream it loud as I inhale flaming air and exhale flaming air in order to scream those words out loud. WHORES! WHORES! WHORES! WHORES!

WHORES!

The Crow’s had enough with these whores.

I am The Goddamn Crow.

I, The Goddamn Crow, fucking leap some ten meters into the air before flapping my burning wings. With my goddamn pistol’s last rounds, I aim at all three of them at once. Because I can.

I squeeze the trigger. My frantic cursing makes the gunshot sound like a whisper.

All at once, bullets hit them in their heads. They fall down, grey matter coming out of the holes between their eyes.

Grey.

Gray.

Richard Gray Age Twelve.

Gray’s Anatomy.

Greys.

I once read a book about a man who killed whores. The book was all about black and white. All that man saw in his world was black and white. Symbolic, perhaps, of right and wrong. Ink on paper. Right and whores. Black and white. He killed whores in a city of sin and saw it all in black and white.

I kill whores. In a City of Angels. I don’t see it all in black and white. Grey. It’s all grey. No symbols. No right and wrong. Whores. But no right. No wrong. No black ink drawings on a white sheet of paper. Maybe pencils. Pencils all over a white sheet of paper, covering it all in lead. I see it all in grey.

I am The Goddamn Crow.

I land. And the Crow goes in. Me. Into the den of whores.

A stripclub. A whore house. Full of corpses. Man-corpses. Written over the mirrored ceiling were the words:

THE GUN IS GOOD THE PENIS IS EVIL

I agree. With my penis.

I am The Goddamn Crow.

There she was, the lady in red. Blonde red. Spreading her legs wide open on the whore-couch. Holding a pistol. The spent magazine clutters on the ground.

She closes her legs, stands up, and shoots me. One last round in the chamber. Into my head. My skull.

Between the eyes.

Pain. A white flash.

The deformed bullet bouncing off the bulletproof. Falling to the floor.

She was empty. So was I.

I slashed her across the chest. She screamed and fell on me.

Her breasts bled on me. Like my mother.

People say they remember being born, their earliest memories. My earliest memory was my mother’s breasts.

They bled on me.

I holstered my empty sidearm as her spent pistol cluttered to the floor. I hold her close in my arms.

For the first time ever, I notice one thing.

The Crow saw that she was pregnant, her belly like a bloated hemisphere.

They killed because their unborn children were taken from them. Maybe that was why she killed with them, she killed for them.

The Crow drops her bleeding, dying body in front of a hospital.

In that black-and-white book I read, the man said one thing too. Everything wasn’t black and white. Sometimes, just sometimes, there were colors. The red flare of passion. The blue eyes of the innocent. The yellow of sickness. He was wrong with the black-and-white. He was right with the Technicolor.

I killed her because she was a whore, and I was right. All women are whores, but not all whores are women. There are man-whores. But some women-whores aren’t just whores.

The Crow remembered when his mother’s breasts bled on him. And he saw the dying woman, blonde hair, pale skin, red dress. Crimson blood pooling in the grey concrete pavement.

Her child would be an orphan. Orphaned because of a war.

The war.

My war.

On Whores.

His, or her, parents are dead.

I am The Goddamn Crow.


“Nevermore.”

[Malchus]

WHORES!!!

The Goddamn story is Goddamn back with all of its Goddamn madness! GODDAMN!!!

As for my feelings on this story, this sums it up quite nicely:

I agree. With my penis.

[Invictus]

The Crow has indeed been missing from this forum for too long. And now he is back.

With a vengeance.

[Mobius 1]

It sorta flows, you know?

[Vagrant Orpheus]

Ah, Crow. How I love you. This story is still classic. I should probably post the mindfuck tale of A Special Day soon too, but I'll wait until I update The Crow's article, in case I need to make any slight alterations.

Yeah, Shroom, this is still awesome. You need to write more Crow stuff. He's too fun.

[Heretic]

Crow! Man oh man, this is a special type of writing, making similies with violence and sex. This is utterly classic, as I can actually read this and not go "What is this? Where is this? Why is this?"

Shroom, a 16/5.

[Shroom Man 777]

Thanks. I was eagerly anticipating your reaction. And, yeah, I am simultaneously both proud and horrified that I have written this magnificent atrocity.

Check out DINO EATER if you have time. Since I'm (slowly) making a re-edition, you can catch up with the first chapters.

The latest chapter has also been posted, but those would make you go "What is this? Where is this? Why is this?" (though how any sane mind can not ask those questions upon reading the insanity of the Goddamn Crow, well...)