Review #28

HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Story by Secondpillow

Review by Ray




HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, or Thirty Hs, is a story written by Secondpillow that blows me away; I don't know how a person can be on so many drugs and still write so fluidly.


Chapter 1

Dobby relished his groinsaw's roar as he withdrew the flesh-choked blade from the astronaut's ruined skull.

 

Who the hell starts a story like that? I guess it might as well start that way, there really aren’t many methods of working your way around to it, but holy fucking shit.

He turned to Harry, thrusting his bloody, retina-covered pelvis with elfin fervor.

"How does Ronnie Ron taste, master?"

Harry spat out an eyeball. "Like some kid with eyes."

Yeah, I suppose that makes sense. Now could somebody please explain what the fuck?

Dobby ducked an astronaut's poison barbed fist, digging his groinsaw into the beast's abdomen and letting the spray of viscera wash over his elfin space armor. The skulls' eye sockets on his shoulders grew brilliant with an infernal cast and vomited a bolt of light through an astronaut; he was thrown back against the deathwall, his flesh boiling in another dimension.

 

Dafuq am I reading?

Harry slapped Dobby, who giggled.

Harry reminded himself to kill himself later.

Could he remind me to do the same?

"Master, look out!"

Dobby's groinsaw screamed as it flew off the armor, rocketing through the air like an early dream of mankind.

Mankind’s had some pretty fucked up dreams, but that’s a little specific.

It flew through three astronauts who dropped their hellspears as the saw cut a hole in the ground beneath them so they fell to hell and the demonic spheres rape them to this day, boys and girls.

… was this meant to be a fairy tale? A demonic rape sphere and groinsaw infested fairy tale?

Chapter 2

"Now, Dobby."

Dobby knelt before his master.

Harry withdrew his guitar, Fuckslayer, from a dimension where all screamed for naught.

Okay, Fuckslayer is actually a great name for a guitar aaaaand I Googled it to find this image exists.

 

Wrought from the silver heart of heaven's false promise,

Neat, poetics.

laced with vessels that pulsed with angel's menstrual blood,

Less neat, less poetic.

hewn from the horns of Satan's generals,

Alright Secondpillow, that’s enough description out of you.

it laughed as it was set loose, a laugh that only Harry could hear, but no one could share.

Harry swung the guitar through Dobby's chicken neck.

 

He took the head of his fallen dwarfslave and tore open his stomach, stuffing the head inside.

I feel like this story is just a bunch of things happening. There’s no setting or meaning, it’s just pure nonsensical action.

Harry vomited steam and summoned a great meteor from space to smash into Hogwarts and kill everyone there, for no reason at all.

But there has to be a reason, there just has to be! Why? Why?

 

I refuse to accept there was zero motivation. It doesn’t even have to be rational, but it has to exist.

A vision then appeared. It was Dumbledore,

 

entombed in his cursed mummy armor, calling Harry from his Moonbase which wasn't on a moon.

Sounds like Dumblydore’s back, fuck death.

"Harry, you must rock the fuck out."

 

What can I say, Dumblydore wants what Dumblydore wants.

Harry channeled his rage through Fuckslayer. The angel blood boiled as he summoned the great meteor, swathed with the blood of the tiny fucklings at Hogwarts, leapt onto it, and flew into space.

This story fails on so many levels, but one things it got right is the vocabulary. Fuckslayer, fucklings, even groinsaw has a ring to it.

He encased the entire meteor in a wreath of holy fuckfire and flew through Mercury, killing the fuck out of it.

The god or the planet? Either way, I’m fine with this now that he has Dumblydore’s blessing.

Then he sent Mercury's carcass into Venus, killing the fuck out of it and making every vagina in the galaxy explode, and inside every vagina a booby sang of mortal life's fleeting precipice.

 

Harry then did fly his meteor through space, punching astral vampires in half with his fists encased in fuckfire and throwing their ruined heads into the past where they bit cavemen on mars so that history changed and now there are vampire cavemen on mars.

Wow, that one almost makes sense.

 

Harry received another vision from Frumblegore,

who was having tea and chumpits with the president of Pangea.

Sounds like an interesting conversation to say the least.

"Care to have tea, Harry?"

"You know how I hate chumpits."

“Well I didn’t offer any you litte fuckling now, did I?”

Chapter 3

Harry slammed his book shut. It wasn't really a book, because the pages were made of lasers and the words were made of headless women making godless love to dragons made out of motorcycles,

 

but it was still reading.

 

Phew, for a second that was completely fucking irrational, but now it’s all good.

"Gumbledorp,

if you don't stop, we'll starve, and no one will be around to kill everyone in the universe

 

if we get around to bringing everyone back to life

 

after we killed them."

 

"I am no longer Scrumblegort."

The ancient man dropped some of the planets he was juggling.

Some. He dropped some of the planets he was juggling.

"The worlds have shifted. I am Dumblecop,

of the Darkmeal."

He flexed one of his legs, which was made of pistols, and kicked a planet in half.

 

Seriously, did Nelson Muntz write this?

"Bugger your Darkmeal, faggart of a thousand suns."

Dumblecop sniffed.

"And what of it? Is it a sin, should a man feel like faggarting a sun or a thousand?

No?

 Why should the suns heave through the void, if not to be skewer't bypon ourn fagpoles?"

That old English is better than all of Volxemort’s lines combined.

Harry cast a glance at the book. Unsavory sounds emanated from a particularly damned chapter.

Based on the words alone, I have a hard time imagining there’s a chapter that isn’t.

He was hungry. He looked at a nearby cup. It had a faded brown film on the bottom. He thought about chumpits.

Chapter 4

Harry had found some food. It was guarded by three and a million thousandsurf ninjas, for it was the last food on Surf Ninja Moon X.

I count six reasons that doesn’t make sense, can anyone find more?

The ecology had been decimated by surf ninjas, so the last food was a cabbage and mustard sandwich. Harry squatted in the ruins of a castle which had been many skulls arranged to resemble one large one. It had been poorly done, with the cheeks fading into an amateurishly executed jaw line.

Come on surf ninjas, you had one job.

The silent killers of the night had negated their innate advantage by only plying their craft on surf boards. During the day.

Is it fair to say they’re just surfers then?

Harry was about to eat his cabbagewich when a man in a tuxedo appeared from behind nothing much. He stood ten feet tall and his head seemed wrapped in unwrappable darkness.

At this point, I’m willing to believe he stepped out from behind himself.

"I am Rape Radbury.

Johnny Cash, I see your boy named Sue and raise you a boy named Rape.

I write critically acclaimed fiction that always turns into fact.

Every fuckling reading this should take a moment to be thankful neither Secondpillow nor I have that ability.

That's why I have more money than anyone."

Harry dug a bit of cartilage out of the cabbagewich and continued chewing.

What the hell kind of cabbagewich is that?

"Would you care to discuss one of my books? I hear that my..."

Harry fished out another bit of cartilage. It was a cartilage and mustard sandwich.

Oh… okay…

"You shouldn't believe what everyone says about me. I took a shower with my cousin, once.

Is this Harry or Rape speaking? Either way I’d like to hear more.

And I have racist thoughts."

 

Geez, try to be more sensitive.

A nibbet of yellow cartilage landed on Rape's shoe. He thought about his cousin.

Chapter 5

The inquisitors were torturing Harry.

The who? At where? Because why?

First, Ignatius used the rock.

Then Billy asked Harry if he wanted to read his BDSM blog. Harry was so surprised that his pants flew right off.

 

He was wearing women's underpants.

The inquisitors were wearing them, too.

They realized that they were all men of the lord.

Whatever lord that is, I’ll consider joining the religion.

Chapter 6

Harry awoke to the throaty grumble of a rape ape.

 

Not a rape ape, but the rape ape, the last of his kind after the subjugation of the rapeforest.

Okay, new tactic for those people clearing the rainforests; if you want people to stop complaining, just rename them rapeforests.

His people once graced the canopy, their penile digits proudly grasping the vines as they swung through the night, their hundreds of sweaty simian dongs trailing a now-fetid memory in the rape ape's watering eye. As his ocular ducts began to well with ancestral pride, so too did the countless meaty members sprouting from the rape ape's every hairy inch.

I can see why they’re extinct, that sounds horribly impractical for everything but forced breeding.

From his eye sockets, ear holes, even his calloused toes, a penile font of cry-juice birthed a deluge.

“cry-juice”

Harry observed this with consternation, as he was tied to a table.

Tied to a table in the presence of a rape ape, that’s a time when you should really reevaluate your choices in life.

Neither magic nor supracosmic strength would free him from his bonds. Had this creature access to an unknown material of deistic strength? Or did the rape ape have a secret yet more baffling?

Rape ape knows all, don’t strain your mind trying to catch up.

Harry squinted so he could see the subatomic strings of the ropes. He began tossing antimatter at them with his mind as a group of children entered the rape ape's hiding place.

What kind of field trip is that? Professor Hent, I’m looking at you.

They were well-groomed and impeccably attired, and there were 5.8 of them,

 

just enough to represent an array of genders and races that would leave no one unhappy, save for the Eskimos.

That… actually checks out. Well done Secondpillow.

They were on their own, as far as the rape ape was concerned.

"Why do you cry, rape ape?" asked child 3.2.

To you it might not make sense that there’s a child 3.2, but it does to child 4.π and it does to the rape ape.

The rape ape, unwilling to hide its greasy primate cock tears, hung its head, and gravity coaxed the eye wangers downward. It tied them together into a bow atop its head, to be pretty for its guests.

See? Rape apes are just as polite as the rest of us, if not more. What a shame he’s the last of his kind.

"We are bound in this ligature of lingam, brother rape ape," said child 4.6.

The children surrounded rape ape, holding their hands, and began to sing.

And thus One Direction was formed.

Harry was transfixed as he watched the children, gently swaying with the song, float skyward. The little ones began to orbit the rape ape, who was convulsing as though stricken by the seizure devil.

Am I the only one who thinks seizure devil sounds Amish? Just me then? Alright, fine.

As the song increased in tempo the childflesh bubbled and merged into a spinning wonder turbine. The fleshy kidmass sprouted hair and groin dribblers just like the rape ape, and sprayed confetti into skies of past and future,

Is this child porn? Because I have a feeling it might be, but it’s hard to tell.

setting the constellations aflame with the opalescent of the perished rape apes.

Is there a better smell in the entire universe than rape ape? I submit that there is not.

An explosion of color and hair left Harry Potter alone and still bound.

Oh yeah, I remember now; before the rape ape tangent, this was fanfiction.

He thought about sandwiches.

Chapter 7

Harry Potter awoke in a pit that reeked of hot sauce.

Who among us can say they haven’t been in the exact same situation? Oh, everyone? Well then, continue.

He could feel viscous fluid under his fingernails, burning the tender skin. Everywhere were white bags bulging with foul product. They were diapers stuffed with chicken bones and hot sauce,

 

their foul odor blossoming in the muffled dark. Harry's nostrils begged his brain for mercy. He flew upwards, away from the saucy mysteries below.

Normally I’m all for saucy mysteries, but in this context I’m glad Harry opted out.

The smell grew faint, calling him to return. Harry ignored their lies,

 

flying beyond the lips of his prison. He was in a laboratory, with machines that had no purpose beyond blinking lights and soft hums.

Sounds like every laboratory I’ve ever seen, not bad Secondpillow.

"Hello, my boy son! You make a father so good!"

Harry had flown out of the nose of an old man. This man wore a white coat, yet was drawn by the hand of an idiot.

 

His voice came not from his mouth, but from elsewhere, a sad attempt at humanity.

Fuck your reality, fuck my reality, and fuck every reality that may or may not be real. The writer is clearly on shrooms.

"I know you'll do so well! Now you choose!

The man reached into his coat and laid out three diapers, each brimming with the spicy bones of the nose prison.

None of the above is the only correct answer. Or all of the above, if you’re into that.

He removed his head and stuck it on a spike on the counter, to keep it from rolling away.

 

The diapers began to stir as creatures clawed out of bony wombs.

And thus, One Direction as born. To you it might not make sense that they were formed before they were born, but it does to the rape ape.

Arrayed before Harry was a turtle, the reptilian body so frail that it seemed an afterthought to the shell, a bald weasel with toothpicks for legs, and a wrinkled thumb in a glass of water.

How does one write this randomly? I mean, I’ve written some damn near incomprehensible shit in my life, but I’ve kept most of it to myself. Secondpillow on the other hand, he blows mine out of the water and actually made the resulting madness public.

The old man's head called out from the spike.

"Everyone has one! Make your best friends for life!"

 

Harry drank the glass of thumb water and spat the thumb at the old man's head.

Chapter 8

Severus Snapplebottom

Yes. We now have the Harry Potter pseudonym triumvirate complete; Dumblydore, Volxemort, and Snapplebottom.

began his life as a hand on which were perched each of the five first presidents of a country called America.

This must take place in the future, here in the present America is an entire continent or two.

The first two presidents, Geheb and Swonash,

 

were turned into ashes by a passing wave of fast food regulation. Their ashes were consumed by children in various Wendy's establishments. Each plastic packet was a coffin for their memory, and no one knew their name, even though they were listed on the ingredient list.

Is this a political statement or a list of demands from the asylum where Martin and I met?

These children became soldiers in wars fought for control of who had all the bullets. Whoever shot the most bullets the fastest won.

 

The third president, Wahooley, went to a country that was nothing but a desert with half buried turkeys.

Nevada?

Sometimes turkey butts were above the sand, sometimes a leg, or a head. Wahooley tripped and fell into a turkey head, where he was eaten and ordained as a rabbi.

 

He was sent to trim the beards of 157 toads, whose beards were absorbing the water that was used for the next year's crop of shovels. Without these shovels, the peasants would be unable to shovel the ashes of their children from the bullet wars.

Ashes and bullets, because callback.

Wahooley took these beards and formed a lasso.

 

Why? Because even though it’s not, this could easily be what happens next. In fact, I would rather have this happen, but instead we get Secondpillow’s morbid vision.

This lasso was a ropey wonder. He used it to tear off his penis and write the 13 commandments of America upon a passing eagle, in cock's blood:

 

1: You are stupid.

You are mean.

2: Baby, someone cut off my dick and wrote an America with it.

Hey, that’s not a commandment. Come on Secondpillow, you want me to take this seriously right?

3: If a whale tries to sell you a pumpkin, don't.

Please don’t mention pumpkins. The details are sketchy, but I vaguely recall coming down from a Fukitol high next to a passed out Warnuts, a smashed laptop,  and a variety of mutilated pumpkins.

4: Your head is an artifice. Throw it away, but don't let anyone see you do it or you'll be kicked out of school.

But what if I’m not in school, did you think about that Wahooley?

5: Always collect a ghost's shadow if it leaves one behind. It will be worth something someday.

6: Starbucks napkins are hereby the new currency, but only after they are smeared upon the corpse of a mule.

Seems like a solid trade system.

The exchange rate will be 13 mules to one napkin.

Or at least it did, until you went and ruine it with that. What happens if the value of mules changes, what then?

7: Taxi cabs will be used to build a pyramid with 290 sides.

At that point, can we just call it a cone?

It will be the white house, and the president will live there for 17 years at a time, while you eat your children's ashes on a bun.

8: On Father's day, you will enter an invisible box and be plunged into the ocean. There, you will enter an undersea candy store, but you will never have enough Starbucks napkins to get what you want.

Does this apply to everyone, or just fathers?

9: It is all spam, all of it. Check the box and delete it. Now delete yourself, for you are spam.

Careful Wahooley, considering I’ve already died once in these reviews that might actually happen.

10: All clocks will be inscribed with the entirety of the alphabet to save time.

 

Is that so difficult?

This is the alphabet:

 

6+7=A

14*12= B

16 - {eleventy two}= President Wahooley

And so on, until you reach the period, which is the end of the alphabet.

 

11: All previous constitutions were writ by false writers, whose passing eagles were inferior and whose cocks had fewer things in them.

I’ve done a lot of writing, and very rarely have I had something in my cock at the same time. Does that make me a lie? Does that make me spam? How can mirrors be real if our eyes aren’t real?

Accept only the American cockstitution.

 

12: Spend your adolescence as a duck, waddling in a circle, until you become an egg full of dust.

13. All time is a knotted ball. You can hide it anywhere in your body, and it is still time. President number four, whose name was not a name, but a multitude of hot dogs in the shape of swastikas,

 

decided that he would create the Gilded Age.

Because that’s how it works.

This was a time in which every edge was embossed with a golden trim, like a wedding cake invented by Thomas Edison. All the women wore bonnets made of butter, and were picked up by their feet and spread on toast in the summer.

I have to think there are more practical ways of doing that.

It was all for naught, because this was not the toast of the righteous.

And because that’s a massive investment of labor and resources for minimal reward.

It was a feeble toast, one which withered with the coming of the sun. Not even the crows would touch it, preferring the taste of mouldering poop water.

Worst. Toast. Ever.

But the crows were put in dresses and sold to the highest bidder, where they underwent liposuction.

Why would people ever do drugs when there are stories like this to read?

President five disliked the conservative leanings of his brothers, so he became an infinite two-dimensional grid of pink and green squares.

As liberals are wont to do.

Each square had a vagina upon it.

Go on…

These vaginas each emitted a spear of light, upon which was skewered an endless succession of planets. Each carried a culture dedicated to a single sex act.

Go on…

The further down the skewer the planet was, the more orifices possessed by its denizens, and the more gymnastic their sexual culture.

So Earth is somewhere around planet seven, with our denizens dedicated to the twerk?

The worlds...

Chapter 9

Harry Potter lay, dreaming.

Always good to get back to the roots of a story.

In his mind there is a hat, suspended.

Holy Perspective Jesus, we’ve entered the present tense. Buckle up, shit’s about to go down.

It comes unhinged, travelling beyond the dream. The hat finds a sunlit hill, studded with flowers and children gorging themselves on chocolate.

Taken out of context, this chapters is kind of pleasant. But we know the context, don’t we?

Chewing faces are smeared with brown residue.

Taken out of context, this sentence is kind of gross. But we know the context, don’t we?

Perched atop the hill on its brim, the hat is still. It rolls down the hill, skating between the chocolate-stuffed children. It comes to one child, and stops. Without chocolate, the child stares blankly at its neighbors, filled with emptiness.

The fact that he’s calling the child “it” bothers me.

The hat points its empty bottom at the child and sprays a glittering beam of rainbows.

Has Secondpillo had a change of heart at the last second? Will there be a happy ending after all?

They encircle the child's hands, transforming them into chocolate.

Of course not, what was I thinking?

Tears of joy streak down the child's smile as it begins eating its hands.

Oh, so maybe? I don’t know if this is supposed to be charming or disturbing, but I know where my vote goes.

The hat flies into the sky. The child waves a brown stump.

The hat ascends to a palace of clouds. Within, God, bearded and weeping, sits beside a mountain of tiny angels.

Is this happy God or angry God? Or pasta God?

One by one, he picks them up and tears off their wings. He then places them into separate baskets.

Something tells me he’s just as lost as the rest of us.

The hat approaches god, and the rainbow is deployed. It encircles God's crotch.

 

A giant chocolate phallus emerges from God's robes. Dropping his broken angel, he breaks off a piece of his candy member and smears it on his lips.

 

With a chocolate-studded smile, he slowly raises his fist and gives the hat a thumbs-up.

Oh, hold on; this most be a planet with an amputee chocolate fetish, that’s why everyone’s so happy. I should’ve paid more attention to the cockstitution.

The hat travels into space. It finds itself before the sun. It is a tiny dot before the immensity of the cosmic fire. The hat trembles. A tremendous rainbow issues forth, embracing the sun like a wedding vow.

“I vow to always be faithful, and turn your dick into chocolate.”

The fire cools and deadens. A chocolate tidal wave roars from its poles and meets at the center. On earth, the skies blacken.

A few minutes later, the lack of light wouldn’t reach Earth right away because… I’ll shut up, sorry for bringing logic into this.

The flowers turn to dust. Humanity expires silently, like an infant in its crib.

 

The hat drifts through space, dreamless.

Amazing, this story is truly a marvel to behold. I’ll be sure to read it again later to make sure I’m not tripping balls myself, but for now I hope I’m not alone so you can all witness it’s glory.