“Wolf Blitzer’s Basement” By Matthew Dexter


Puffing a canoeing blunt of Bob Saget OG, Skippy Super Chunk Extra Crunchy Peanut Butter camouflaging my anus, Sarah Jessica Barker licks. I’m a doomed man. I suck bulbous condoms, donning ski mask, nitrous oxide oozes from tonic tamponade tonsils, slaloming esophageal varices, flaming inertia of dangling chairlifts. Dr. Pepper cracks marijuana seeds duct-taped to my scrotum.

Vamanos,” I say to the cockatiel.

“Shine on you crazy diamond,” Dr. Pepper says.

Dr. Pepper dances on constellations of scarred shoulders. We swagger to the fridge, bobbing our skulls to homemade rockets vanishing into cumulonimbus. I stand naked, marooned, camouflaged by freezer frost—ripping fat hits from a rusty can of Reddit-wip. Families explode, but we barely notice. They don’t swallow the sky with flames. Kaleidoscopic funerals inking wretched origami ships; crumbling rainbows. Fortunate souls make it aboard the mother ship, commandeering fancy cabins and shuttles to the moon.

“You never know, Dipshit,” Grandma says.

I suck mildew nozzle. Adam’s Apple sweating in tonic tributaries, Sarah Jessica Barker moans. She’ll be dead soon. Mushrooming cirrhosis consumes my poor whippit. Heaven is wielding humongous tumors. Groggy dreams, phantasmal maggots rotting, insomniac frogs moaning cacophonous oblivions. Yesterday eats ether and stardust—momentarily blocking oxygen from our brains while getting a rim job from “the poor man’s race horse.”  

“Soon we’ll ooze bloody shit and shark bait,” Grandma says. “Lake Isle of Innisfree.”

Sarah Jessica Barker wags her tail. Pupils larger than flying saucers, lysergic acid diethylamide kicks in. Porcelain veneers on the nightly newscast shimmer.

“We’re losing it!” an anchorwoman says.

“Should I rock my steel butt plug?” I ask Sarah Jessica Barker.

She’s tripping balls. I slide them deeper down her throat.

“Gotta warm it first, Dipshit,” Grandma says.

The old lady bleeds blind and deaf. She winks…squinting rheum, puffing Alaskan Thunderfuck from a canoeing blunt wedged in her tracheotomy hole. Propaganda weeps from fingerprinted Teleprompters. Collaged with coagulated boogers—angels blown to serrated shrapnel. Technology ripples from feeble minds to bleeding eyeballs and nipples.

“Connect your neocortex with the cumulonimbus,” Grandma says.

We dance with death—selling souls—bubblegum dust on a butterfly’s wings.  

“Scrape the bong for resin,” says Dr. Pepper.

I curl an aluminum hanger as if preparing to ambush a fetus. I stuff it into my hookah and all the schwag and buds and oozing nectar. Grandma commandeers raunchiness. Resin balls dampen handkerchiefs. I snort a Trojan Ultra Ribbed Ecstasy Lubricated Condom and yank it out the other nostril. Rockets swallow thunder. A convoy of starving sex robots is honking as space stations plummet into the Pacific. I peer out the doggy door beneath the glory hole we built for Grandma. Their hydraulic whips worm around the barrio.

“Not today, Dr. Pepper,” I say.

My neighbors shun vehicles. Most are modest about cataclysm. Meth heads melt into obstinate sunshine, skull-shaped saguaros, stars shooting from donkey-hollow eyeballs. I bid goodbye to Sarah Jessica Barker. I shove me legs into my favorite rocket ship tighty-whities. Grandma munches mushrooms and peyote while programming atavistic sex robots to catapult old ladies into shopping carts in the frozen food aisles of Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods. The abandoned Walmart whimpers, walls of feces, a fortress of misfortune. Home Depot parking lots puke splintered sunshine.

“Not today, Dr. Pepper,” I say.

My steel butt plug makes me shoplift. I am dynamite in a bottle, a dying glint of sunrise. A single mom and her daughter careening across bowing cobalt sky—bursting into flaming fuselage—borne by the inertial giddiness of felony theft—a dust cloud draping our desert metropolis. Remember the way it makes you feel. How it sucks sand eddies into grimy ears, draining the silence of dying.

“Sky is the limit,” Dr. Pepper says.

I shut the door and dance into churning dust. Monsoon looming, a marshmallow swooping from mountains where cannibals feast on toothless coyotes, earthbound asteroid. We’ll be orgiastic stardust by the end of October. Fledgling colonies on the moon flourish, beaming holograms of suffering, torture, famine, death—to persuade us to remain on our dying planet. They are eager to watch our orgies of flames, dust blotching into blackness breathless. Adolescents give birth in bellies of baby elephants in urine-warmed craters. Tanning salons ornament red rocky landscape. I ring the doorbell in the belly of the cul-de-sac.

“Good afternoon,” says Wolf Blitzer. “Welcome to the situation mansion.”

Drunk on whisky, Wolf ushers me toward the French casks where his mural waits–bursting with wrinkles and fur. Wolf’s nude personage looms, monstrous, labyrinthine, ominous, foaming, consuming the chunky cameras watching Wolf spank his monkey. That’s not a euphemism. Wolf owns a spider monkey. Little Booty Ham Sandwich keeps Wolf company. He cut her from the parachute of a splintered rocket and yanked her into his mansion.

“Shall we begin, Mr. Blitzer?” I ask.

This is what I get for being a reality star.

“The end is near,” Wolf Blitzer says.

Wolf watches me, mural spinning. Little Booty Ham Sandwich rides her tricycle, smoking a Cuban. I inhale depravity and voluminous bundle of vulnerability in the man once trusted to deliver the truth. Brushing teeth together, flossing spittoons of blood, a toothless madman grinning on filthy futon. Wolf Blitzer made me feel safe.

“I was only a boy.”

Wolf smiles, spanking his monkey harder and faster as the basement weeps. Little Booty Ham Sandwich begs for mercy. Wolf succumbs. She climbs the mural, juggling bowling pins—swinging upside-down, strung-out to the marrow.

“We were all children,” Wolf says. “Sixteen is legal in some countries.”

Little Booty Ham Sandwich somersaults onto Wolf’s head—chewing—an avalanche of fur—anchorman howls as the mural melts and chunks of flesh and blood catapult from cobwebbed corners to cattycornered crevices where mice make love in pyramids.  

“Holy shit,” I say.

Little Booty Ham Sandwich is sucking Wolf Blitzer’s carotid artery. Fur in the throat and esophagus of the spider monkey, Wolf howls.

“Relax, you beast!” Wolf Blitzer says.

Little Booty Ham Sandwich humps Wolf Blitzer’s beard, bloody tail spinning in elliptical orbits with the inertia of a supermassive black hole. Little Booty Sandwich, eyeballs flaming, floating with wisdom of flying saucers, glowing, Little Booty Ham Sandwich—camouflaged in Wolf Blitzer’s beard—Chief Correspondent for singularity. I take one last look at Wolf Blitzer—shredded testicular beard exposed through bloody scrotum.


Mom worked in the ICU. She got fired the night her PornHub video from the morgue went viral. Wolf Blitzer broke the news. They blurred out her breasts, ballooning bubbles swallowing dueling penises, scrotums, buttocks.

“Sick,” Grandma said. “Like the Muslim inhabitants of the Maghreb!”  

When I was eleven, Mom instructed me how to shoot myself “properly.” One of the penises in her PornHub film operated on a dwarf, an elfin man who attempted suicide with a sawed-off shotgun. The poor bastard couldn’t reach far enough to pull the trigger with the barrel in his mouth, but he reached far as he could. Problem was the barrel in the back of the throat repositioned and the angle altered. He blew off the front of his face and a good chunk of his head. Angels pray to burning altars of human error. If you listen hard enough, you can hear them weep.

“How ya feeling today, Chuck?” I ask.

Chuck smiles. Or maybe he frowns. Nobody knows. Chuck cannot talk. He frightens children in the corridors. Most hideous moment of a thousand childhoods is looming in the shadows beneath this door.

“Looking good, Dude,” I say.

I change Chuck’s bandages.

“Stay inside, Dude,” I say.

Chuck ganders through the window in the door. His smoldering soul, skin glowing, golden goose burning in weeping rain. Rockets soar into exploding atoms.

“Don’t do it, Chuck,” I say. “They’re just kids.”

From childbirth to hearses, Grandma makes an apple bong from the serpent.

“I mean it, Chuck,” I say.

Dude somersaults through shattered glass and sprints down the hallway, howling. I stare through wet walls where burning bodies crumble to dust as Wolf Blitzer moans.


Like nomadic Pericu, American expatriate Matthew Dexter survives on a hunter-gatherer subsistence diet of shrimp tacos, smoked marlin, cold beer, and warm sunshine. He lives in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. He is the Lil Wayne of Literature.

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