A Brief Study of Land Mammals

By Eric Chase

Eddy's get-rich football betting scheme has yet to pay off, so in the meantime, he continues to endure the grind of daily life. Luckily, he fancies himself an American looking at America, studying the masses. Observing the mating habits and seasonal migration patterns of every day men and women. Eddy struggles to find the meaning behind it all, the motives of these Land Mammals.

As Eddy teaters closer to the edge, he finds himself faced with a self-imposed ultimatum: to find wealth, love and success, or die trying.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eric Chase
• Release date: Jun 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476140025

Eric Chase

Eric Chase was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan. He currently resides in San Diego, California. He has studied various subjects at a plethora of schools, none of which resulted in a degree. Eric works for a living, writes for fun, and enjoys referring to himself in the third person.

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A Brief Study of Land Mammals

By Eric Chase

Published by Eric Chase

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Eric Chase

Lettuce Neck Productions

Cover Art by Justin Byxbe

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. After all, I'm broke as shit.

The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

To my Maria. Sweet, sweet Maria, wherever you are.

Chapter 1

Some call it people watching. It’s a popular pastime in America, of many voyeurs, philosophers and all manner of detestable people. I like to think of myself as an American looking at America. I prefer to think of it as analyzing data, to be processed and stored for use at a later date. For a purpose, I don’t yet know. Perhaps I'm conducting an investigation into the meaning of life.

Take these people for instance; walking through the door of the restaurant is a perfectly normal American couple. A walking, talking testament to the righteousness of our society; A Pillar to the Sanctity of Marriage. I’m only assuming that they're married. But freaks like these must huddle together for warmth in a cold world, for safety in numbers. Clinging to each other for fear that no-one else would have them.

The man is tall, with a large beer gut jutting out from his red Mr. Rogers sweater. His stomach forces a stained white undershirt out between the buttons, discolored with remnants of drool, maybe apple sauce, maybe vomit. His greasy hair is parted sloppily, I imagine it emits an odor somewhere between fish and gym socks. He wears impossibly thick glasses, complete with the obligatory tape in the middle. The woman, a real hippopotamus of a human. Over six feet tall, maybe three-hundred pounds. Her cascading gut is nuzzled in between drooping Banana tits. The kind that don’t quite hold their shape, reaching up towards the sun, like a weed. Contorting upwards toward the heavens, seeking the sun's warm, nurturing ultraviolet rays to induce photosynthesis, producing life giving glucose. She’s ever so slightly cross eyed, her hippo features completed by jagged, seemingly randomly placed fangs. Her wrist-forearm area is a solid bat, a bulbous mass of adipose tissue. This pair of strange and fascinating creatures waddle over to my cash register to place their order.

I’ve named them Frank and Myrtle by this point. At first, I had thought maybe Pat, but this hippo just had a Myrtle vibe to her. I focus on Frank’s teeth as he talks, studying his primitive tools of destruction, mastification and mayhem. His fangs have a yellowish brown tint to them that make me think of taffy. I hate taffy.

They proceed to order enough food to feed at least five people, maybe a small African village, before choosing a table. Now I can study them in their natural habitat. Grazing like cattle. The fat, ugly, god-forsaken personification of America. Can these people truly love each other? Do they honestly find each other attractive? Are these strange beasts even capable of human emotion? Surely, they know of pain. Ridicule. Each of them being tormented for their entire lives. I can picture Frank in middle school, a disfigured little pig man, being stuffed into a garbage can. Punched in the face, his lunch money stolen. His shoes and back pack ran. Maybe the sadistic fiends even peed on him.

I notice his hand shaking violently as he holds out a glass to Myrtle. He obviously can’t control it; he appears to be deep in thought, trying with all his might to still his quivering hoof. I wonder if he’s an alcoholic, fresh off of a hard week-long bender. Maybe he and Myrtle sit in their cave, just pounding down shot after shot of cheap vodka, and then fuck like whales, rubbing on each other's blubber until sperm gushes out in a cloud, polluting the nearby waters. Or maybe he has Parkinson’s Disease, and I’ve made an ass out of myself. Over three-million people are afflicted each year; it stands to reason that Frank could very well be one of them. A glaring statistic in the flesh. Myrtle, a Pillar to the sanctity of marriage. What a women she must be, to live with this man, enduring his epic battle with Parkinson’s disease, them versus the world. A man and his hippo, defying the odds. An American, looking at America.

These two creatures have been ostracized by the world, chased from their village by the angry town folk, brandishing torches and pitchforks. So grotesque and revolting that no other human could ever love, and yet they have each other. Somehow, these two whales have found something that most people haven’t. I find myself jealous of Frank in a weird way, not of his hippo bride, but of what he and his hippo have. A happy amalgam of blubbery torsos and stubby limbs, a slimy sweaty pretzel of love. They probably lie in bed together, farting and whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears, massaging bacon grease into each other’s numerous chins. Maybe they’ve found Sex Heaven. But I doubt it.

Sex Heaven is a magical place. Fabled, some would say. But those that have been there believe. A magical land where orgasms are endless and cum spurts onto breast shaped clouds from mammoth geysers. Buxom bodied beauties fly from cloud to cloud, fucking and sucking to the delight of all. Sex Angels, I like to call them. They can only be found in Sex Heaven, naturally. Of course, Sex Heaven is inherently different than regular heaven. For one, there are no rules. It’s a free for all, no orifice to be spared. No act unexplored. No poison apples here, just juicy young cunts, begging to be spread open. Secondly, to get into real heaven, you have to pray, devote your life to Jesus Christ, to absolve you of your sins. Or Allah. To get into Sex Heaven, all you have to do is find a Sex Angel. Sins are welcome. But it’s not as easy as some men would wish.

Frank and Myrtle begin to eat their food. If you could call it eating. It’s more akin to a black hole, swallowing everything in sight. Its horrific gravity, squashing every particle to nothing. It’s like watching a pair of starved wild boar, savagely devouring a maggot infested carcass. Farting the whole while. Enough of this.

Juan, I’m gunna go have a smoke.

I make my way to the back door, stepping out into the hot San Diego sun. I roll up a cigarette and light it up. The sweet rush of nicotine to my brain. A slave to the cloud I exhale, my OCD reward system of breaking down the day into manageable sections. An hour of studying the wild life, rewarded with a cigarette; Jesus man, it’s dangerous in there. My gold medal for my epic performance, achieving against all odds. Some people want to win the lottery. I want to win another small battle in the war of life and be rewarded with a cigarette.

At the gas station next door, a young vixen steps out of a convertible. My eyes follow her legs up to a perfect ass, pausing for a moment, before moving up to a pair of succulent breasts. She’s got the body, but could she be a Sex Angel? Fallen from Sex Heaven to rescue me from this cruel, bizarre world. A testament to the power of fuck, to all that is right in this world. The wonder of bang, the beauty of hump, the fabled Sex Angel magic.

While true, Sex Heaven clearly has no rules, there are lesser levels which some poor schmuck’s mistake for the real deal. Fake Sex Heaven. Lame, dead fish fucking. For example, one girl’s Sex Heaven could be another girl’s Sex Hell. Most women would not be interested in a grown man defecating onto them. Blowing sour diarrhea onto their expensive haircuts. A whiskey butt-blast of oatmeal all over their Coach bag. But to other girls, this is a perfectly acceptable practice. Perhaps even common place. A typical weekend event. Get a pedicure, go shopping, go out for a few drinks, have some stud thunder butt an ass blast of gravy & corn onto the slut’s bite-marked breasts. What is beautiful love making to one girl could get you arrested with another.

Officer, he choked me! He hand-cuffed me and called me a dirty little bitch! He slammed my head into the wall and pulled my hair!

The family cries, and the jury shakes their heads in disgust. The judge slams down his gavel.

Guilty! For the crimes of assault, sexual deviancy, strangulation, slander and hair cumming, you will be sentenced to thirty years. May God have mercy on your soul...

Just like that, you're fending off DeJarnell the rapist, the Aryan brother-hood, and trying to acquire a shank to settle your beef with Caesar once and for all. But with a true Sex Angel, she’ll say she’s still horny. Ask for more. A Sex Angel, from Sex Heaven. Sent from the gods to us mere mortals, the sheep. A Pillar to all that is right in this world.

I put my cigarette out. I’ve been lost in thought. The gas station girl has disappeared. Off to be deflowered and abused by some lucky douche, undoubtedly. Perhaps she likes to be crumpled up in a ball, knees to her face, arms pinned behind her back, taking a walloping. Or maybe she’s a prude. Never seen a dick in her life. A dry cunted bitch, mad at the world. A sand-snatched cock witch, blessed with a figure designed for destruction, but too selfish to share her gift with the world. There are far too many like her, ungrateful whore-nots, blessed by the Sex Gods.

It’s possible that she was a former Sex Angel, now being held captive by a rich, un-sexual husband. A gift to the world; a caged dove. But dirty birds always fly free, eventually. It’s useless to deny the inevitable. One day the husband comes home from work early to find his sweet little wife being tag-teamed by two punk kids from around the neighbor-hood. High fiving, as they Eiffel tower his innocent whore wife. Maybe he’ll walk in as one of them blows his load right across her back. His immediate reaction would be shock and confusion. What’s going on here? Are these men raping my wife? Rage. She looks like she’s enjoying it. She’s making noises he’s never heard. That fucking slut. Next thing you know, it’s a triple murder suicide.

You never know who’s banging your wife while you’re at work. You never know whose wife you're banging, either. One wrong move, one miss scheduled fuck session and BANG you're dead. Some men actually love their women. Crazy, jealous bastards. A bullet to the skull in return for a nut busted in the face of some neglected Sex Angel. Or maybe you’re the shooter, firing your .45 into your wife and her lover's faces.

You fucking dirty whore! You’d say.

This is why I sometimes think I should own a firearm. For protection's sake. It’s a sick, fucked up world out there. Maybe several guns, so I can have them strategically and artistically placed throughout the house. One in the bathroom, the kitchen. Garage. Buried in the couch. I would train daily, working on my marksmanship on a variety of simulated situations. Running through a home-made obstacle course, a real John Rambo type. Jumping over barriers, crawling through mud, that sort of thing. For protection's sake, of course. But I fear that I would then become obsessed with my firearms, thinking of them constantly. Have they been stolen? Are they all right? Does the government know I have them? Maybe the Russians? Have the Asians finally come for me, in my time of weakness?

I’d like to think that I’m an optimist about these types of situations, but sadly I’m probably a pessimist. Or a lunatic, just waiting to crack. Realistically, I’m probably somewhere in the middle. At once infinitely wiser, and unrelentingly irrational. This is why I do not own a firearm.

Back in the stifling confines of work, I resume my position at the register. An older woman is standing at the counter, her neck strenuously extended forward in a futile attempt to decipher the cryptic letters on the menu board. She has a terrible wig.

Can I help you? I ask.

Oh, yes, sonny. These old eyes aren’t what they used to be.

Her yellowing, bloodshot eyes dart about, a distant look of morose confusion emanating from her blue hued pupils. I smile and nod.

Do you have spaghetti? she croaks.

Yes. One order of spaghetti then?

Please. And no sauce please, just butter. Helps it slide down, she smiles. A few darkened incisors reside lonesomly in her purple gummed maw.

Some might say that this was a shitty job for a twenty-eight-year-old man, but it did the trick. My bills were paid, albeit just barely. Considering my complete lack of any valuable skill in this modern world, combined with my eccentric and sometimes erratic demeanor, my options were limited. But working here had its perks. I could observe the grazing herds in their most vulnerable state. Stockpiling observations on the state of the human psyche, to develop a detailed profile of Land Mammals.

My eyes are drawn back to Frank and Myrtle, exemplary specimens. Frank’s hand shakes violently as he attempts to bring a fork to his mouth. Anguish in his eyes, ravaged by Parkinson’s. Crippled with highly developed, late-stage alcoholism. Myrtle has already finished eating, probably because her steady hands are capable of stuffing her gaping maw at a rate dwarfing that of her alcoholic lover. A decided advantage in evolution. A slobbering alcoholic like Frank could never be loved by anything more than this wildebeest. A Pillar to the sanctity of marriage. Perhaps they're crystal meth tweakers, I decide. Up for seven straight days, he and Myrtle just babbling drug induced false insight to each other. Two disfigured beasts, grasping furiously at each other’s foul genital regions. Wild-eyed drug sex, just fucking and farting. Whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears. They may have just killed someone in the midst of a week-long tweak-o-rama. Stabbed a hitchhiker three-hundred times before raping him and lighting him on fire. Or maybe, Myrtle wasn’t always a hippo, but was mutated during a meth cook gone awry. But I doubt it. They're too fat to be tweakers.

As I drive home later that night, I think to myself, is this what life is all about? Sex Heaven and Sex Angels, arming oneself to the teeth with firearms, preparing for the upcoming Race Wars? Surely there must be more to the dastardly, vague plan of our creators. Or maybe the point of it all is just to fuck and to kill. Create and destroy. An endless circus act of violence and pornography, a hippie rain dance of blood and cum. The Gods must just laugh at our plight, our sad excuses for an existence.

Regardless of this unfortunate truth, I must continue onward towards my destiny. Keep plodding along, waiting for a Sex Angel to fall from the sky into my arms. Right onto my cock, legs spread, wild-eyed and ready. But whiskey is more of a sure thing. This part of town is starting to get bad; I think I may need a pistol. It’s a crazy world out there. Mongoloid Land Mammals, freely running amuck, dwelling our streets drooling. What right do hippos have to be happy together? The puzzles only grow more complex.

I’ve had an arch-sex angel fall from the great orgy above into my arms before. Straight from heaven, onto my cock accelerating at ten meters per second per second. It’s only a matter of time till it happens again. The only problem with Sex Angels is that they are insane. Sirens from a forgotten time of sexual primates. Evolved from the ancient Sex Gods themselves. That’s your choice. The human dilemma. Either a stark raving mad, cock gobbling cum queen, or a plain Jane dead fish. An evil sex-craving deviant, bent on draining your balls, brain and sanity, or a lifeless bore, only sucking your will to live. One, a fast paced, hectic mind boggling existence. The other, a life sentence in a lame-sexed prison of isolation.

Of course, since there are no rules in Sex Heaven, Sex Angels don’t follow rules either. Yours, their own, the law's, or nature's. All order is reduced to a sloppy blowjob in the hands of these semen slurping maidens. All caution and rational thinking, splattered like a love blast across their face. They say if you cum on a girl, it’s sex. If you cum in a girl, you made love. Love is a dangerous