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...Or in all situations, at any time, any place, and by any audience for that matter.

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

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.

Harry slapped Dobby, who giggled.

Harry reminded himself to kill himself later.

"Master, look out!"

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

"Now, Dobby."

Dobby knelt before his master.

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

Wrought from the silver heart of heaven's false promise, laced with vessels that pulsed with angel's menstrual blood, hewn from the horns of Satan's generals, 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. Harry vomited steam and summoned a great meteor from space to smash into Hogwarts and kill everyone there, for no reason at all. A vision then appeared. It was Dumbledore, entombed in his cursed mummy armor, calling Harry from his Moonbase which wasn't on a moon.

"Harry, you must rock the fuck out."

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. He encased the entire meteor in a wreath of holy fuckfire and flew through Mercury, killing the fuck out of it. 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. Harry received another vision from Frumblegore, who was having tea and chumpits with the president of Pangea.

"Care to have tea, Harry?"

"You know how I hate chumpits."

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.

"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.

"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.

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

Harry cast a glance at the book. Unsavory sounds emanated from a particularly damned chapter. He was hungry. He looked at a nearby cup. It had a faded brown film on the bottom. He thought about chumpits.

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

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.

"I am Rave Radbury. I write critically acclaimed fiction that always turns into fact. That's why I have more money than anyone."

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

"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.

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

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

The inquisitors were torturing Harry.

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.

Harry awoke to the throaty grumble of a fuck ape.

Not a fuck ape, but the fuck ape, the last of his kind after the subjugation of the fuckforest. 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 fuck ape's watering eye. As his ocular ducts began to well with ancestral pride, so too did the countless meaty members sprouting from the fuck ape's every hairy inch. From his eye sockets, ear holes, even his calloused toes, a penile font of cry-juice birthed a deluge.

Harry observed this with consternation, as he was tied to a table. 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 fuck ape have a secret yet more baffling?

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 men entered the fuck ape's hiding place. 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. They were on their own, as far as the fuck ape was concerned.

"Why do you cry, fuck ape?" asked man 3.2.

The fuck 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.

"We are bound in this ligature of lingam, brother fuck ape," said man 4.6.

The men surrounded fuck ape, holding their hands, and began to sing. Harry was transfixed as he watched the men, gently swaying with the song, float skyward. The little ones began to orbit the fuck ape, who was convulsing as though stricken by the seizure devil. As the song increased in tempo the manflesh bubbled and merged into a spinning wonder turbine. The fleshy manmass sprouted hair and groin dribblers just like the fuck ape, and sprayed confetti into skies of past and future, setting the constellations aflame with the opalescent of the perished fuck apes. An explosion of color and hair left Harry Potter alone and still bound. He thought about sandwiches.

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

"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.

"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. 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. 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. 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.

Severus Snapplebottom began his life as a hand on which were perched each of the five first presidents of a country called America. 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. 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. 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. Wahooley took these beards and formed a lasso. 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.

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

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

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.

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. The exchange rate will be 13 mules to one napkin.

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

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

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


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. 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. 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. It was all for naught, because this was not the toast of the righteous. 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. But the crows were put in dresses and sold to the highest bidder, where they underwent liposuction.

President five disliked the conservative leanings of his brothers, so he became an infinite two-dimensional grid of pink and green squares. Each square had a vagina upon it. 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. The further down the skewer the planet was, the more orifices possessed by its denizens, and the more gymnastic their sexual culture. The worlds...

Harry Potter lay, dreaming. In his mind there is a hat, suspended. It comes unhinged, travelling beyond the dream. The hat finds a sunlit hill, studded with flowers and children gorging themselves on chocolate. Chewing faces are smeared with brown residue. 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 hat points its empty bottom at the child and sprays a glittering beam of rainbows. They encircle the child's hands, transforming them into chocolate. Tears of joy streak down the child's smile as it begins eating its hands. 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. One by one, he picks them up and tears off their wings. He then places them into separate baskets. 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.

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. The fire cools and deadens. A chocolate tidal wave roars from its poles and meets at the center. On earth, the skies blacken. The flowers turn to dust. Humanity expires silently, like an infant in its crib. The hat drifts through space, dreamless.

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