← back to writings
writingIcon

All Stirred Up

A gleeful depiction of violence and bigotry by Eric Tang



(WARNING) This story contains highly provocative content. If you are uncomfortable with extremely graphic sexual imagery, please do yourself a favor and grow a fucking pair. And whatever you do, don't come bitching to me about what I can and can't write you piece of human garbage.




I love stir fry. Fuckin’ love it. Chicken, broccoli, and noodles? Some of those little corns? Hell yea. Smell that garlic. That buttery sizzle when it hits the pan. Godly. Spoon that garlic in. Damn, that’s a big spoonful, that’s fucking generous. Thank you, stir fry person. I appreciate it. Don’t go easy on that stir fry sauce either; make sure you mix it up good with those noodles. Fuck, I can’t wait to just be slurping down these hot noods. Do I want spicy? That spicy stuff? So many important decisions...

“George! You haven’t been listening to a word I said!” 

George wheels around to Margaret, waiting in line with him, and gives her a solid “yeah,” a “sorry, go on” sort of “yeah,” not a “yeah, I haven’t been listening” “yeah.”

    “I’m super stressed,” she says, “On top of all my readings, I’ve got a buncha term papers due and my turn to workshop is this week!”

    “That sounds pretty suh, dude,” says George. An awfully large mound of spicy flakes is being added to the stir fry.

    “Can you be, like, just a little stressed out for me?”

    “I’m gonna level with you; that doesn’t sound bad at all. Try having to finish programming projects for multiple classes and studying for an ass breaking midterm about applied cryptography.”

    “You comp sci people are always jerking yourselves off about how hard your major is. I bet you wouldn’t even last a single class as an English student!”

    “I bet you $1 that you wouldn’t last a single class in computer science.”

    “$1? You afraid to make a real bet?”

    “Isn’t $1 a lot to a liberal arts major? It’s nothing to anyone who works in STEM, but...”

    “You jackass! Give me your phone!” George hands Margaret his phone. She switches their schedules around. “You better not skip out on this,” she growls.

    “Pshh. It’s just a creative writing class. How bad could this possibly be?”

//

    Fuuuck, this fucking suuucks. George sits at the end of the table. The class goes around and responds to the story they just workshopped. 

“I reeeally liked it. I loved your use of words and language to tell a story.”

“I agree. The words are just so well picked as opposed to random and sloppy.”

“Yea, I agree with whatever was just said. So deep and well thought out.”

“Going off of that, I have to agree.”

“Yeah, I have to agree...”

This is not a satire of our class, by the way. It is a satire of all classes like it.

George rolls his eyes. A ragged man to his left nudges him. This man has a streak of blue hair, a streak of red hair, a nose ring, tattered clothes, looks like he hasn’t slept in days, smells like trash, studies a useless subject, and probably is broke due to horrible life choices. He also isn’t wearing any shoes.

    “Wow. How about you lay into me a little more, huh?”

    At first, George is unsure if he is being talked to. He turns to the hobo. “Excuse me?”

“I see you, STEM major imposter, grumbling every time anyone says anything, wearing your first hand mildly affordable shoes.”

This man is clearly insane. George wishes to keep the engagement as short as possible. “I’m just sitting here man.”

“How about you do us all a favor and go back to your bourgeoise dreamland where you CS people suck each other’s dicks or whatever it is you do that buys you your fancy shoes?” George ignores this silly person. The hobo starts gyrating his hands. “A curse falls upon you! Soon you shall know the true pain of~

“Get o-o-outta here with that!” says George, shoving the hobo away. George leans back in his chair. He glances up at the clock. Only 5 minutes have passed. This is a 75 minute lecture.

//

    Prof. Malarkey lectures at the front of the classroom. “... when we take a closer look at the inner loop of the algorithm, we see a call to the recursive function split(), which we previously established had complexity log n. So, although on the surface this algorithm appears to only visit every element once, this actually makes the big-O notation O(n log n).” He squiggles the answer in green ink on the whiteboard and turns towards the rest of the hall. Several students nod and murmur in understanding. Simple.

    A student raises his hand. “Prof. Malarky, that’s pretty cool and all,” he says, standing up and unzipping his pants, “But are you familiar with the concept of big-notation?” A giant hairy cock spills out of his fly onto the desk.

    Margaret snaps awake. What’s going on?

    “Holy shit! Look at that cock! That’s gotta be 20 inches soft!” someone says.

    “You think that’s impressive? Check this out!” Another student drops his pants and exposes a monster 15 foot ding dong, making a wet, slippery sound as it unspools like a fire hose around the room. It rolls past Margaret and she almost falls out of her seat. 

    A third student stands and unzips his fly. “Mine may not be impressive now,” he says, pulling out a modest 8 inch dick, “But if it were an algorithm, it would grow exponentially with regards to space!” He starts rubbing furiously and his cock shoots up into the air. The room is soon filled with a bunch of sweaty nerds stroking their dicks, moaning, and exclaiming “mine’s bigger!” Some grow so big, so fast, they punch through the roof. One is so tall it knocks the Hubble space telescope out of orbit. The NASA crew sent to recover it climbs the dick like a flagpole, capturing the hearts and minds of the nation. These are the brave few heroes who we will tell stories of for time immemorial, the heroes who so bravely put their lives on the line in the country’s time of need. But that’s another story.

//

    Mmm... Stir fry... No! It’s too spicy! My ass is gonna be on fire for days! Nooooo!

    George awakens from his noodly nightmare with a start. Looking around, the room is empty and the lights are off. No spicy anywhere. It was all a dream? he thinks, standing up. What a disappointing cliché. Although it does kind of fit the theme, given the class I’ve just experienced. I just wish it was better set up or alluded to. He starts for the door, assured he won the bet, but the ground seems colder than usual. He looks down. “What the fuck? Where are my shoes??” 

    “I’ll tell you where your shoes are.”

    In the back of the class, in the darkness between the chairs, sits a hunched figure. Wispy hair falls from its balding head around its sagging neck skin. A pair of rusty handcuffs binds it to a desk. “Your shoes were taken by Glibbus Globus, ” says the creature, “He is the dark lord of this land, a master of illusion. The legends say...”

George holds up his hand. “Stop. I don’t give a shit about the lore; this story’s long enough as it is. How about you tell me who you are, why you are telling me any of this, and whether or not I can trust you.”

Whatever it is cackles. “Some call me a prophet, others a troublemaker. But the truth is, I am simply... a trader. I help those in need, give aid to those who seek it. Then one day, you will have to help me.”

    “So you’re an ex machina?”

    “Well, basically, yes.”

    “That’s stupid.”

    “Well, get used to it. There are a lot of us in this department.”

    “At least I don’t have to learn what your motives are or interact with you again after this.”

“Wait- You know how I said that you’d have to help me in return? The English department has kept me locked here since the beginning of the semester to teach what not to do in a story. Clearly, it isn’t working, so I was thinking maybe you could get me out of here if I~”

“Sure. Where can I find this Glibbus Globus?”

“He can be found atop the highest stairwell in the building, right next to the keys to these chains. You can’t miss them.”

“Cool. Thanks for the help. I’ll be right back.” George runs out of the room. The goblin kicks his feet in his chair. The room is silent except for the hum of the HVAC unit and the jangling of his shackles. 

//

A circle of desks is formed in the center of the class. The students stand around it with their pants down and their cocks on full display, resting on the surface. A panel of Big Tech recruiters paces around the room. Their discerning gaze passes over each meaty tube steak and they murmur to each other about the qualities they find Big Tech worthy. 

“This cock is pretty nice,” they say, giving one a gentle, fleshy poke, “Elastic foreskin, subtle vein pattern... The shave is rough, but I think the elegance of the curve makes up for it.”

“Three degrees, sirs,” ejaculates the student, not able to hold in his animal desire to impress. He holds up a cup filled with a smoky substance to the recruiter. “Would you care for a semen sample?” he asks, “Milked fresh last night.”

The recruiter takes the cup and swishes a gooey string of cum around his mouth, letting it spread across his tongue and hit the back of his throat for maximum flavor. “Mm,” he says, spitting it back into the cup and passing it on for the next recruiter to try, “Fruity, but with a distinct chocolatey note. You must have eaten a lot of pineapple yesterday. Very refined.”

The other recruiter swallows his sloppy seconds and nods in agreement. He points to a strange zipper on the side of the student’s dick. “There’s a bit of an extrusion here, can you explain what that is?”

“Oh that?” says the student, unzipping his cock, “That’s a specially designed pouch to fit another dick into.” There is straight up another dick growing off this guy’s dick hiding under a zipper sewn into the guy’s dick. “Fully functional, but that’s expected. The real gimmick is that it gets hard independently of the parent dick.” The student jerks off the tiny side dick and it gets hard, but the bigger dick it’s attached to remains loose and rubbery. The recruiters lick their lips. 

“Wow. I... Wow. That’s really something,” one says, “I’ve never seen that before.”

“I’m actually super impressed. That is really swell. Definitely something we’d love to have at Big Tech,” says the other. 

The student beams as the recruiters move on. They stop at Margaret’s desk. She’s curled up beneath, whimpering. Recruiter #1 knocks on the table. “Well? Aren’t you gonna show us your cock?”

Margaret rolls over. “You want to see my cock?” she asks. 

The recruiters look at each other, confused. The room starts whispering. 

What’s going on?

That person doesn’t have a cock?

A crowd gathers around Margaret’s table. Some hold their erect cocks in their hands like baseball bats. Others with longer cocks begin tying theirs into nooses. “I dunno where you’re from, stranger, but if you haven’t heard, this is a no girls allowed space. We don’t take too kindly to non-cocked folks around here,” the recruiter says, lighting the tip of his penis on fire. The lights go out, and all Margaret can see is the glow of the computer scientists’ eyes, illuminated by menacing torchlight. 

“You do have a cock, right?” they ask.

//

George arrives in the main lounge of the building. Atop a mountain of stairs sits Glibbus Globus; it’s the hobo from earlier!

“Pfeh keh keh keh... You have done well to find me here, computer scientist.” He spits the words “computer scientist.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out George’s shoes, and holds them up for him to see. “Looking for these?” he asks, “You thought I was just a dirty hobo, a pitiful English major who was not worth your time. But little did you know that I was an English/Performing Arts double major! I was only acting powerless and weak to steal your shoes! Now I, the man with two useless majors, have everything while you, the STEM major, have nothing! How does it feel now that the shoe’s on the other foot?”

“Cool monologue. Very succinct. How about you hand those back and I don’t come up there and kick your ass?”

“Do you really think you are in a position to bargain right now?” Glibbus reaches into his other pocket and presents a Lego Star Wars Death Star kit ($795.99). He tears open the box and spills all 4,016 pieces of legos all over the stairs. “You’ll never make it to the top of these stairs in your socks! You might as well give up now!”

George growls. “When I get up there you’re gonna wish you could get rid of those shoes because they’ll be up your ass! Because I’m gonna kick it!”

What comes next is the most painful 30 seconds of George’s life. The sheer agony as the legos stab the bottom of his feet sends him screaming to his knees, his suffering wails echo throughout the empty building. It’s as if he has stepped into a field of needles, an endless minefield, a bed of hot coals. A feverish sweat breaks on his forehead. It runs down his face and burns his eyes. He takes step after step, each filled with more sharp, pointy little multicolored bricks than the last, but he never seems any closer. Sweat mixes with tears. Hope begins to fade. God, I wish I could die right now, he thinks, Put me out of my misery!

“Shit.” Glibbus starts backing up as George reaches the top of the stairs. George swings his epic thighs around the Glibbus’s head and supplexes him. Glibbus tumbles down all of the stairs, hitting every single lego along the way. Then he falls up a couple of them. Then he falls down them again. He lies at the bottom, a crumpled heap, skull cracked and bloody on the floor. George poses at the top of the stairs, triumphant.

“Wait, fuck, I forgot to take my shoes back,” says George.

Actually, these are the most agonizing 30 seconds of George’s life. Not only does he have to go down every single step, but the act of going down requires him to put more weight down on his feet and that causes him to step on the legos even harder. The torment is endless. How can any one person stand such affliction? Were humans built to suffer so? If there is a God out there, do you think this is what he thought life should be? What is the point of going on if each second is so much worse than the next? My life is miserable. It always has been. Suicide is the only option, really. Yes, that’s it. Death is the only release. 

George makes it to the bottom of the stairs and picks up his shoes and whatever cash is in Glibbus’s wallet. As he turns to leave, the smoldering corpse of Glibbus rises behind him. A dark flame envelops it, transforming it into an unholy tower of evil. “You fool! Those shoes were the only thing holding back my true powers! Now the whole CS department shall feel my wrath!”

But George is already walking out the door. “Yo, this is dumb. I ain’t participating in this,” he says, “See ya.”

//

Dear ma,

It’s been several days since I first stepped into this accursed department. By some miracle, I have managed to elude my pursuers; it was actually kind of easy the first few times (they can only run about 20m before needing to stop and rest), but they are numerous beyond count and I have yet to find an exit which isn’t blocked by a wall of penises. What’s more: although they lack physical prowess, they are driven by some strange machine; with every escape, their plans become more and more sinister.

I fear the trees now. Every rustle is a flank. Every breeze is an encirclement. I feel my time is almost up. Ma, if you get this, I just wanted to know that I was fucking right all along; comp sci is the worst fucking thing ever. You still think I should switch majors and try to get a real job? Still think it would be worth sucking it up to try paying off those student loans? I bet you’re glad that my life goal was to be a poet now. Fuck you, mom.

    Just as Margaret hits send, a dick lasso comes flying out of the bush and ropes her down. “Hoo-wee! Looks like that dang ol’ deep learnin’ machine did the trick! I knew it’d after another thousand iterations!” says a voice from the shadows. Several penises are lit, revealing a circle of naked computer scientists had crept up on Margaret while she typed. 

    As they drag her along a shoddy dirt path, a ghostly laughter fills the woods. The nightmarish parade passes by jeering, mud clothed men who dance and stomp when they see Margaret’s plight. “You gon’ get it now!” they say, helicoptering their dicks over their head. It reaches a clearing in the wood, a moonlit hill with a single, craggy tree at the top. Several skeletons hang from its twisted branches. A large clan of men in nothing but ghostly white, glans shaped hoods emerges from the forest and gathers behind Margaret as she is led to the tree. They are all a-hollerin’ and a-cheerin’ as a dick noose is fixed to her neck. 

    “Hang ‘er! Hang that son’ bitch!” someone cries. The crowd whoops and yee-haws. 

    “Son uva bitch? Looks more like just a bitch to me!” Another howl, hyena laughter.

    “Hell, if she was a son’ bitch, then we wouldn’t have to hang him!” The frenzy peaks, the bloodlust is tangible.

    “Hang her. Git the pronouns right.”

Silence.

    “Daggum it, don’t go all grammar nazi on me.”

    “We’re comp sci- We’re assholes, but with precision!” 

    “Don’t look at me. I ain’t know how this grammar shit works.”

    “Somebody look it up. What’s the right pronoun to use?”

    “I would use ‘her,’” offers Margaret, “Even though you’re referring to a hypothetically male version, the antecedent of the sentence is ‘she’. Also, switching pronouns in the middle of a sentence is confusing. Keep it consistent.” 

    The clan nods. “Thank you kindly miss,” says the executioner.

    A sharp jerk lifts Margaret off the ground. She claws at the flesh rope cutting off her breathing as the crowd goes wild beneath her. Tears well up in her eyes. The light of the torches begins to fade to black. Margaret had always laughed at the idea of dying while choking on a dick. This... was not at all how she imagined it.

    “fooLS.” 

There is a rush of wind; over the treetops rises a tower of black flame. Glibbus Globus has arrived. “This whole department is rotten,” he says, “I must cleanse it all.” 

All hell breaks loose. The computer scientists scramble, all sense of community lost as they step over each other in hopes that they might be a lucky survivor. Glibbus laughs at their futile attempt to escape and swathes his fiery arm over the crowd. It happens in an instant; the entire hill is set ablaze, immolated men collapse in heaps, those who survive flail and wretch as their skin burns off. The screams are lost to the roar of flames, the insane heat burning the voices of its victims down. 

A lick of flame frays the dick tied to Margaret’s neck. With the last of her strength, she swings, breaks free, and comes crashing to the dirt. As Glibbus stomps up the hill through the mounds of charred, crispy bodies, laughing at the dying candles of light, she tears off into the night. She has no idea where she’s going, she doesn’t care. Get away... she thinks, the image of flames bursting from the heads of her tormentors forever branded into her memory, Get away! She runs and runs, beyond all thought, beyond all reason, beyond all hope, until she can’t anymore. Then she starts walking.

//

“That stir fry is gonna cost you six dollars.”

“Dang,” says George, seeing only a five dollar bill in his wallet, “Where am I going to get one more dollar?” Margaret comes bursting through the dining hall door. “Holy shit, Maggie!” says George, “I haven’t seen you in a while. Listen, about that challenge... I think I might have misjudged the English department-”

Knocking down several people standing in line, Margaret lunges at George and shoves a dollar bill into his hand. “Fuck that! You were right George! I couldn’t handle it!”

She’s covered in dirt and blood. Her clothes are singed and there is a wild, desperate look on her face. George stands there, dumbfounded. “So you’re admitting defeat?”

“Yes! Comp sci is the fucking worst! It’s way worse than anything I’ve ever had in English! You win! I shouldn’t have complained; your major is way harder than mine!”

George blinks. At first, he doesn’t know how to react. Then he unzips his pants. “Go on.”

“You heard me: you win! You always win! It’s because you’re so smart, George. I should have listened to you in the beginning. From now on I’ll do everything you say.”

George pumps his cock like a mo-fo. “Yeah, keep going!”

“You’re the one reasonable person in this whole university, far above any English or comp sci major. God~ you make me so hot! I think I’m gonna give you a congratulatory blowjob right here.”

“Fuck yea! That’s right bitch! I’m so fucking awesome!”

George wakes up from his masturbatory fantasy and finds he is alone in his room. The shades are closed, it’s musty, and he just shot ropes of cum across the room all over his roommate's important paperwork and pictures of his girlfriend. At that moment, he hears the key in the door.




Written Spring, 2020 for English 354 at UMass Amherst.
This is satire, a work of fiction. There's your stupid disclaimer.


← back to writings