Monday, April 21, 2008


preface: I've been doing aikido for over a year now, got to 5th kyu and not sure whether I'll take it much further than that... What's up Hertzie? Physically too hard for ya? Not muscly enough? Not good enough technique? Well, all that maybe and something else. Not enough of a sadist. What do you mean? Aikido-ka (as practitioners of aikido are known) might be the most sadistic bastards in the world. They seem to revel NOT NECESSARILY in the perfection of their form BUT in the near-maiming of their fellow aikido-ka, whose well-being is in their hands at the moment of completing any technique. Some just take it too far. And it reminded me, I did this story Aikido Whore way back in the mists of time - seems fitting somehow, now.

short story by Hertzan Chimera

She was the stuff of magic: a PrimeTime show-n-tell superstar. 140 European pounds. Stiff right arm. Back a rod of iron. Center of g pivot guiding the hilt. Left hand nail-gunner.

Aikido Whore was a post divorce runaway from Seattle deep in heretic country. Her parents were sea-farers from old Nihon and Aikido Whore returned to the fold most weekends. To the rocky escarpments of her ancestry. Chilling chimes of angry foam colliding with her frigid naturism of icy rain on black nipples.

Aikido Whore lay back on a cliff edge of rainstorms, her meter long katana between her white thighs. The lilting chime of inclement weather banging on the cold steel shaft. The striated handle of carved ivory strapped in gold velour, ribboned for her pleasure. Her half drowning sounds ripping at the black sting of long-lost ecstasy.

Her parents called her the passion killer. Pretty complexion. Well-groomed short black bob. Razor thin lips. Black ice behind her eyes. No facial scars. She taught you how to make choices easier to stomach.

One day she came to our town on the outskirts of nowhere in her bleached white gi and prominent sword of sorcery. Cars would honk like a V of geese and pull alongside her, blood flooded penises unsheathed in battle glory.

I met her just that one time, bumped into her more like, in the local Porn Library. She had ten A-levels in some obscure fields of intellectual sado-masochism. She gently helped me to my feet, a true Samaritan. I watched her perving for hours, her black eyes caught in the speed-reading radar refracted light from superfast prisms you would use to calculate c; the juiciest of vitamin visions.

Aikido Whore was hounded by the martial arts paparazzi, heckled on street corners where she plied her illicit trade in razor cuts of sleaze and chrome rainbows of terror.

She finally accepted a live-on-the-air challenge from a young upstart on the heaving, sweltering sidewalk; a fibrous fleshed Samurai Crack Whore with no front teeth; got them knocked out sucking daddies chromium plated cock post-industrial evolution. She had a golden chassis of the most wonderful allure, smiled as she entered the spotlight. Headlamps blazing from the furtively polished bonnet of her forehead, the V8 in her skull pan revving, purring.

Aikido Whore was like a calm lagoon by comparison. Picture the extravaganza, it is 7:30 pm on a Wednesday Night Newsflash, they are gonna show the contest GlobaLive. Forty six independent states across what remains of our all-too-fickle global economy. These sexual gladiatorials are all we need, they scratch their crotches in household after household after household. Even the pre-high-school-jinx kiddies, allowed to witness this televised filth, scratch their little crotches, spit into spittoons in global unison as the first cursory sword blows forge a naked parade of loin and lightning across forty six independent states.

In the studio audience, men no younger than my grand pappy tore off their shriveled cocks in last-ditch-attempt to lay some fine muscular filly before their time is up. The stage, which sloped towards the camera like a leaking water bed was a awash with these gory, torn off penile stumps maggoting in old rutting wounds the sheen of faded dollar bills.

A swift slash across the chest opened up Samurai Crack Whore's ribcage and in flew several of the rancid slivers of throbbing, pulsating old-man-hood. Samurai Crack Whore retaliated with a big old hack then a swooping slash and a raging impalement that well nigh quartered Aikido Whore there on the spot in the spotlit arena of Porn that was Prime Time TV. Strobe lines of purest Manga influence as she hit the deck. The penises leapt onto her, filling her gaping gashes, fondulicating every live orifice. Cut to the chase and it was an easier win than you would expect for Aikido Whore who writhed about dying fish fashion. Her vaginal juice dripping demise letting off sonorous farts of lubrication as Samurai Crack Whore of Intended Retribution hacked and slashed ad infinitum. All that remained onstage was a split open slaughter of unrateable excess. A miasma of murder for all the luvvies of television land to devour and digest in their ruminant comfy chairs.

And quickly the votes poured in. Aikido Whore scored highly on Artistic Expression while her slut steeled opponent scored equally on Technical Merit. It was flung open to the studio audience totally brain fucked by the lecherous lesbian horror of steel-raped cat flaps.

Anecdotes are heard even now, fifteen years into the tube-blurb future, of the night Aikido Whore brought the house down at 7:30 pm on a boring Wednesday night of Prime Time TV. Legendary fuck festival of the mind, they tend to call it. Long may TV be full access. Opening all to the pleasure of the sexual brawl.