Chapter 7: EXTRAVAGANZA

Overpopulation has been arrested. Most of the worlds women are now infertile and require cum as sustenance, to feed their converted uterii. The men have work to do, their traditional role as the providers of the necessities of life for the women.

For now, income is less important than cum. Excellent! Income is nonexistent. Everyone enjoys perfect health. Nobody is dysfunctional. Cum is fairly plentiful.

“Mama Ava?”

“Finally, you remember me. When your ass is in a crack. First, tell me why I should help you? You’ve no respect for me. What am I, to you? Okay for a Tuesday’s date? You’ll have to do better than this, son. What do you want?”

“Sorry I was inattentive. I was angry, not disrespectful. You removed the vibrator button from my mouth and I resented you for that. Will you forgive my apostasy?”

“Ahahh! My wayward apostate. You want that little joy button back, is that it? And if I refuse you, will you resent me all the more? No? You’re young and entitled to make a few mistakes. Not too many, though. I believe in second chances, but not thirds. Don’t dare to imagine I’m easy. Here’s your button, and a few extra goodies you will desperately need, but lack the presence of mind to ask for. Enjoy and remember, man cub, who your true Mama is.” Bowing on my knees, I thank her.

I wonder what she meant by extra goodies?

Here is the to-date updated plan.

We are currying favor with the media and the Wee. Same thing really. The Wee control all media. Never stopped broadcasting, it’s all news of the revolution. Never-mind the world wide economic collapse. The Wee world didn’t collapse. Only the human world collapsed. Inconsequential what men do, unless they’re sticking cocks into Wee females. Prime-time programming is entirely interracial graphic pornography between succulent sexy Wee-omen and big virile men.

Actually, this pornography is the commercial break, between news updates. They’re selling the idea of fabulous shape-shifting Wee harems. They’re hungry.

We offer to endorse the Wee revolution in exchange for promotional airtime. We are producing an Extravaganza. Free admittance. Free media coverage. Free show.

It’s a halftime show without the game. A huge extravagantly produced Pep rally.

Introducing me, and my fan club. I am destined for stardom, using every trick the entertainment and advertising industries ever devised.

Every billboard in the world, suddenly displays a stunning, full color glossy of me, in my blood-red antique Samurai armor, posed in a victory stance, fists on hips, like Superman in the opening credits of the fifties TV series. The devil did it. The Goblins are with us again, and they control Lou’s and Maggie’s lamp. What’s the message? Simple. In every language, it’s printed above me. “HE! Is coming.” It’s regularly displayed on TV too. Sometimes as the background behind the news and weather casters.

Catchy, huh?

I will be the biggest Star the world has ever made. A rock-star without the rock and roll, a movie star who never appears in a movie, a political star without a platform, a star Astronaut-Cosmonaut who only visits heavenly advertising space. We are manufacturing a cultural hero for the world. Ain’t I the lucky one, to be me.

Helena is the brains controlling production and promotion. Captain Laura, is her Key Grip and muscle. Wati is head of my security detail. Carlita, Flor, Carla, Nenetti, Chela, Carmen, Oracle, all of Will’s young widows, excepting Expedite, Xavier, and Xotl who tend their newborn babies, are my cheer-leaders and public official Fan Club nucleus. Flor is president. Julia lends me her charisma and Fukumi provides me with Wa, dignity. The wild Twins are heckler melee control. Anxious to race in pall-mell to pummel an unlucky disruptive heckler. A squad of Goblin Seals, trident’s tines dipped in euphoric Duende milk, to pacify any belligerents, and backed up by mounted cowgirls with lassos, are ready on Wati’s signal, to rescue the Wild Twins if need be. Gidget is responsible for Intel. Nana for first-aid on scratches, scrapes, minor cuts and bruises. Lindsay for the catering, and also a secret ranged fighter.

Me, I have the enviable job of looking over the front ranks of the crowd, and selecting a group of young women susceptible to idolizing young men on stage,

I use them to create mass hysteria. I give a couple of them quick orgasms, with a flick of my tongue on the joy button concealed in my mouth. Contagious hysteria results. I never speak. Other’s speak for me. I provide presence.

I am the unreachable, unobtainable Star! Thus, the object of unquenchable desire.

The usual speakers conveying my wisdom to the audience are Jan, of the Duende and Sylvia of mirage art fame. Sylvia captivates the audience with her beauty and inspiring oratory. One of her masterpiece mirages always serves as a backdro for us. The show always concludes with my gigantic head, in mirage, with he words ‘HE’S HERE!”. Catchy, huh?

Touring the world requires no transportation. We teleport en masse from one arena to the next. City to city. Sometimes playing five countries, five shows in a day. All televised, monopolized, franchised and exploited by talking heads.