I shouldn't have had sex with that hooker.

Okay, it wasn't really a hooker. It was my boyfriend Sonic. We're in a relationship, have been for a whole entire month now, and by relationship I mean I pay him to fuck me. I pay him to let me put on that strap-on dildo right above my penis so I can double penetrate his gaping asshole. We started going out right after I found him passed out in the hospital parking lot two steps away from his car. Looks like the sucker was on his way to the ER but failed to make it. I found him at the end of my night shift when all the real doctors had already headed home. I wanted to head home too, and by then the parking lot was rather empty. But as I was walking across that parking lot trying to get to the second parking lot beyond that first parking lot, all of a sudden I really wanted to have sex. At the very moment when that thought came across my mind, that I really, really needed the sex, there he was. Sonic the Hedgehog, prone and splayed out on the concrete two steps away from his car like an answered prayer.

When you're born with a penis that you don't feel like belongs to you, usually it's a bad thing. You discover, however, the utility of having an extra phallic organ the day that you end up meeting the guy of your dreams whose anus you want to double penetrate, with one phallus that is made of flesh and the other made of silicone.

It's fourteen inches. It's pretty impressive. My wand, I mean, the other one that I then shove into Sonic's mouth at the same time when I double penetrate him. That's made out of pthalates. I don't know what pthalates are. But most of the dildos in the sex shop keep advertising as pthalate-free, something kind of like soy-free or trans fat-free. It's all some fucking conspiracy, I tell you. Well, I get all my supplies off the Internets. Like, Ebay or Taobao or the Alibaba site thing or whatever. Dildos are sure way cheaper shipped in bulk straight from those chinaman factories.

Okay, well, so, my fingers now come out smelling like god's hemorrhoids, if in fact god gets hemorrhoids. I bet they're big, unless god is tiny. Maybe it's like a Yoda thing. You know, the muppet that lifts the plane. You don't know? Shame on you. I always thought he was a little asshole, my brother Sonic. Me being Manic, he's blue and I'm green. My gloves smell too, and they're also green. Green from Sonic's green poop that is in his butthole, not naturally green. Was in his butthole, not still in there. As my goo-lubricated fist pops out, I think: I am Sonic's poop. I feel that way sometimes in my heart and it makes me sad. Where was I going with this.

You know, Sonic, for being such a rockstar, his poop smells like everybody else's poop. Well, anyone's poop with a similar diet. Kind of like the whole fucking floor of geriatrics that I work on. With all the diaper changes and enemas, I'd know. With each thrust, a little bit comes out. Sonic eats fistfuls of whey and slaps god in the face with his miraculous speed. I'm saying the guy runs. Runs like the wind. Except with legs, instead of kind of just floating there like the wind does. Except you can see him until you can't. Like when he's still, you can usually see him assuming you're in the same room. Unless the room is blue and he's hiding in the corner or something. This isn't something we do, or anything. It's not like a game we play. We don't hide Sonic in blue rooms and see if we can find him or anything. There's not enough blue rooms to make a game like that interesting. Plus, it's pretty one sided unless you have green and pink rooms for me and Sonya. There are no blue rooms in the hospital, last time I checked. Or even green or pink for that matter. Everything is just white, well, not the pure kind but rather the shade you can't quite decide is white that's gotten yellowed or yellow that's faded out.

Wait. Is Sonya even her name? Not Amy, the other pink hedgehog. I'm talking Sonic Underground here. Jesus, I miss Jaleel White. Now Sonic is just some edgelord in bandages and he talks like an asshole. Not like Jaleel White at all.

Fuck, my brain's not working right anymore. Re-arrange the position of my pelvis there, and I got the right angle again. Strap-on slides in, and further along my little bro's rectal canal, in goes my native dick too. Pop, pop. When a guy's got his balls deep in some tight little whore, you can't expect much from him in regards to brain function. And the poop. God damn it. All the poop.

Uh, by whore, I mean brother. By which I mean boyfriend. There is just so much poop, though, man! Fucking everywhere, fuck!

Does Sonic even eat chilidogs anymore? His poop doesn't smell like someone on a healthy chilidog diet, not at all. If he eats chilidogs, does he top them with whey? I've seen him eat fistfuls of that shit, powder crunching between his teeth like sand. Spilling all down his chin and tits and shit. Figurative tits, his torso is like a skeleton enclosed in several layers of shrinkwrap. He doesn't have tits like me. Chilidog tits. Sometimes I see my green, blurred face reflected in the whites of his eyes when I pry his eyelids open as I double DP him. DPx2. Double Penetrate and Dream Penetrate, like I am now. I like to try to influence his dreams. I wonder where he thinks the money comes from.

Another thrust and - fuck, feels so damn good, like I'm tearing out my insides. Like I'm tearing into his insides. Like I'm falling into a tight, hot dream.

I have dreams sometimes. Sonic influences them sometimes. Sometimes I have dreams that I'm submerged in a plastic barrel of lube, just drowning in the shit. I know it's lube because it tastes kinda like it smells and the consistency has resistance when I thrash and shit, like the same kind of lube that I slather all over my baby lover's butthole. I can't thrash much because it's a small barrel, one of those plastic barrels. A blue barrel. Do you think that's Sonic influencing my dreams? The barrel doesn't run fast. It doesn't do shit. Anyway, I just thought it was funny that lube doesn't necessarily lube up itself, you know. You don't thrash around in it quicker than you do water. Or do you? I've never been submerged in a vat of lube outside of my dreams, maybe I'm just making shit up.

Did I nut yet? Fuck, it's taking so long, fuck. I think I'm going soft. I think of chilidogs, vore, giant stuff, the usual that works on getting me hard. I think the internet has ruined my boner. It's hard enough to get excited about double penetrating my brother in the dumpster behind MacGrundles. Or is this a hospital? No, this is definitely a hospital. You can tell by the smell of things. I've made my fair share of scientific deductions using these facehole stench catchers in my day.

Present and past, they contort into a single blur of white dreamdust as I ejaculate a long stream of fresh hot baby batter into my baby brother's battered butthole. Out of my dick, I mean, not the strap-on.

Fuck. I did it again. I fucked the hooker again! Why the fuck am I still fucking this hooker.

Some godawful bleeping sound jolts me back into reality. Then, voices screaming, like through some damn intercom or something. CODE! CODE! CODE! And all that bleeping. Look up at the monitor hooked up to my beautiful beloved Sonic baby, still comatose as he had been last month when I first lifted his body off the concrete two steps away from his car, before proceeding to fuck him on the hood of my own car parked on the second parking lot just beyond. Before realizing that his head was lolling all about and that his spine was making crinchy crunchy sounds every time I pressed into him with my then-solo flesh sword (the double dildo was still in my bag and I was too lazy to get it). Before I brought him to the ER, after finishing for a third time in the depths of his green slime love caverns. Except then, there were little wriggly line things going through the monitor. Now it's all black and dark.

I just sit there atop of him, the strap-on drooping across the roll of my belly, my dick all gone soft below. Waiting. Not sure what to do. As I wait, thoughts come to me, like they always do when I'm all alone in this world.

You know, now that I come to think of it, Oprah should write a book one day. And that book, that one in particular, should be entitled: things you can and can't stick your peepee into, all lowercase letters (yes, that part and this part are all part of the title). That way I know what's socially exceptable to stick my peepee into(also part of the title). End title.

Just throwing that out there. I think god would forgive me for doing what Oprah told me was right, in bold published letters no less. If Oprah told me when and where it was socially acceptable to put my peepee in (and also various silicone or pthalate substitutes), well then I'd just be set for life, wouldn't I? Therefore, dear reader, I'd like to ask of you just a most infinitesimal gesture of support. Please leave a review with your thoughts and sign my change dot org petition whenever you have a chance to get this project off the ground. I am very passionate about it. Also follow me on p-a-t-r-e-o-n and twitter and also p-a-t-r-e-o-n. (P-a-t-r-e-o-n has to be spelled that way, or else it can't get through fanfiction's automatic filter system.)

Damn it, the nurses and doctors are sure taking a long time to respond. Take another look at my Sonic, make a fuss over my little bro. Peel his eyelids up, and his eyeballs look the same as they usually are. Yellow with tiny pin points as pupils. Listen for a breath. Can't hear one. Look for a pulse. Can't feel one. I sigh, and stick my dick back into his blick.

Hey. Sonic is pregnant, isn't he? When people get pregnant, their bellies get bigger and bigger with baby, and then if that goes on uncontrolled, then there can be so much baby that the baby squashes the lungs and heart. That's probably what it is, the reason why he isn't breathing and why I can't feel his heartbeat. It's only going to be temporary, though, until he gives birth. I'm pretty sure that's what they told me during hospital training. I'll tell you one thing, though. If Sonic really is motherfucking pregnant, he won't hide away a litter of my puppies in his tum tum. I pull out and peek into his bellybutton.

Though, if we do have children, I would like to have five, and I want to name them AIDS, HIV, GAY BUTT DISEASE, GOVERNMENT LOVE POTION NO. 9 and NUGGET, respectively. In the order they pop out. If left to his own devices, Sonic would name them all NUGGET. Or CHILIDOG. I love chilidogs just as much as the next 'hog, that's short for hedgehog, but I want to love my children more, you know? I wouldn't want to turn them into feces and pass them through the sewage realm like I do with chilidogs. You can't blame the guy, though. He's just not very creative. That's why he ruined the band. He's not particularly creative, and he's an attention 'hog. That's short for attention loving hedgehog.

Isn't that right, my Sonic boy. Pinch my lovely baby brother's face whose DNA is half of mine, who shares with me the same body and mind and strap-on dildo. His blue, blue quills glisten beautifully even now, despite the darkness of the room and the long duration of his malady that have given to them a flaccid air. Blue and pure, bluer than love, the one true Sonic Hedgehog, the original, the one to whom I can't compare, my beloved baby Sonic. I've sure paid a goddamn lot for this asshole of a hooker, by which I mean of course the medical bills. Even after I refused the ventilator, hospital beds sure cost more than motels.

You know, people have accused me of being nothing short of my bro's recolor. But since I'm older, shouldn't he be my recolor and not the other way around? Is it strange that I get jealous when I see him call Tails "little bro" in the other cartoons? That's not his little bro. He's my little bro. He doesn't get a little brother, that dick. He does get a dick though, and that's mine plus the silicone. Also, any opening a fist can fit into a fist should fit into at some point. I believe in the god that gave me chilidogs and a bass guitar, not the god that made me shit blood for three weeks after drinking the water in Mexico. A sad sigh escapes some orifice like a stinky ghost and I question the fragility of my soul at this point. But not my mind. Solid as a fucking rock.

CODE, CODE, CODE, I keep hearing through the intercom.

Well, the medical team still hasn't arrived yet. What's keeping them? Like, a surprise ebola epidemic or something? They sure gonna have a mess to clean when they arrive, hoo doggy. Wait. Is that you, reader, staring so intently at us right now through the little hospital door, like you might just puke? Come over here, you. Yeah, grab the towel over there, while I just pop this strap-on back into my bag and pull on some clothes, and maybe jump out of the window in the meantime all slick with my home parachute (a blanket taped to some rope. [People throw money away every day, just for the brand name attached to shit.{Fuckin' idiots.}]).

Now get cleaning.

THE END

-a mappack attack