Unlike Kitty, Lance Stephen Lear was far too wired to even dream of sleep, as he stretched out on his bed, in the room next to Kitty’s. Lance had not committed a foul, almost heinous act just a few hours earlier, his turn was still to come, but his day was almost as bizarre as Kitty’s had been.
It is not every day, after all, that a boy discovers that his father is one of the greatest horror writers of all time, and that his father’s girlfriend is one of the greatest pop singers of all time.
It’s not every day that a boy gets picked up, while hitchhiking on a long and lonesome highway, east of Omaha, by gorgeous girl with a fine-tuned supersonic sex machine.
It is not every day that such a uniquely alluring and mysterious girl tells you that what you are about to experience together has all been foretold, and then proceeds to kill guards on either side of a normally out of commission border bridge, in order to gain entry into a country where cigarettes cost $15 a pack.
But none of those things were contributing factors to the boy’s insomnia. Lance couldn’t sleep because he couldn’t get any traction on the first level of KILLGOD! There were two primary reasons why Lance couldn’t get any traction on the first level of KILLGOD!: one, the game really was difficult, even for a top-notch gamer like Lance; and two, because he was hornier than a two-dicked billy goat, as the kids say.
So, whenever Lance managed to manipulate Jesus into a position where he could prevent a Cross wearing terrorist from killing in his name, Lance’s mind flooded with the memory of Kitty’s sexy ass squirming on his throbbing dick.
If he managed to get Jesus to pull his sword out, his mind would fill with the memory of Madonna leaning forward enough to give him a titty shot, and then pretend that it was unintended.
Then, as quickly as you can say, ‘Jesus Fucking Christ.’ Jesus’ head was rolling on the ground, and his feet were playing football with it.
Understanding that there was no point being twice frustrated, Lance would do what every boy does in Canada, when his dick is throbbing late at night, when alone in a room – he pulled his goalie.
Lance Lear, the boy who would be King of the World, spilled royal seed three times, in an hour, before he finally turned off his laptop, and closed his eyes.
But Lance was not getting away from the hormone monster that raged inside, screaming for immediate attention, that easily.
Lance’s dreams were truly lurid. A shape-shifting succubus transformed from Kitty into Madonna, and back again, every few seconds, as she performed act after seductive act, sending Lance’s dreamself into a state of lust induced vertigo.
Crazed, the boy tossed and turned in his bed, begging, “Please! Please! Please!” loudly enough to awaken Kitty in the next room.
Kitty rushed to the adjoining door to see what the commotion was about, to see if her King to be was in danger. She opened the door, and turned on the light just in time to see Lance’s whole body quiver, as he launched gob after gob of royal seed with the velocity of a Bobby Hull slapshot, the most ambitious of the microscopic swimmers landing on the boy’s left cheek.
“Holy fuck!” Kitty exclaimed when the performance was over, “I wonder if his father’s dick is that big.”