Andersen Richards didn’t choose for the world to know that a growing epidemic could be cured by eating his flesh. He would have preferred to avoid anyone suffering the poor impulse-control and constant hunger that Ratfanger’s Syndrome brings. But a tweet, of all things, changed everything, “If you want survive, eat @ADick”.
Blog of Andersen Richards
I talk about Sam and I having sex a lot, don’t I?
My dad tried to convince me that she and I are a… like a “she and I” type thing. When I saw him on Mother’s Day, he seemed pretty convinced that she’s got some feelings for me. The idea that anybody has feelings for me seems exceptionally unlikely.
Even as Sam opens and close her legs against my waist, as she pins me against this overly firm couch, fading black-dyed hair sweeping my face, I know there’s nothing there. Not between us.
She reaches behind her back. Bra straps fall, the cups sinking just enough to still hide her nipples. Even with David and Laura asleep in their room, it feels somehow exposed. She kisses me, working her hips back and forth, that uncomfortable dry humping that grinds your cock but still somehow makes you crazy.
Except it doesn’t make me crazy. I’m as attached in that moment to the sensation as I am to the broken toaster over in the adjacent kitchen. From that empty, uninspired kitchen pulled from the pages of a stock-photo website pours the sterile light that fills this room. And in that light, only she seems truly alive.
It has been six days since Rogers Centre tore itself apart. It’s been five days since Dodgers fans infected with Ratfanger’s Syndrome spilled into Toronto.
News broadcasts have been afraid to show footage. After all, if the rioters dragging people out of cars, setting fire to schools, gluing broken glass to everything are sick, if they have Ratfanger’s, are they responsible? They fear they’ll get sued for showing someone in a protected group acting in a way that might polarize people against them. So you see crowds of people with no audio, and everyone has their face blurred but their shredded limbs are HD.
Suffering is for everyone. Identity is sacrosanct.
Social media is different. On Instagram and Twitter, people are posting pictures of armed guards surrounding emergency rooms. Victims sit on the ground, bleeding into tissues, towels, sweaters. After the second day of rioting, the hospitals started running out of what they could use to stop bleeding. They ran out of things to clean and close wounds with. No one was able to deliver more because of the perimeter.
There were more soldiers and guards surrounding Toronto than inside trying to reclaim it.
Pictures on Instagram made the carnage seem almost sensible. Rats, suffering in sincerity, were sweeping up the broken glass left behind by looters and gluing it to cars, street lamps, taking pictures of how they twinkled in various light.
They were writing notes and manifestos in the streets, in paint, tar and oil. Some of the pictures were complex thoughts and messages burned into lawns and hillsides.
There was so much beauty. Terrible beauty.
Philosophy began scrolling across the cityscape. “Take five when the wind changes”. “Never look a shadow in the eye.” Their minds were reinforcing so quickly, so sporadically, each person has their own rapidly changing belief system.
Superstition can generate in moments. A new religion within a matter of hours.
Each localized entirely in one person.
The brain fires and says “that is good” and the individual struggles to redefine why they’re feeling so elated. Their belief of what is good changes, too. The viral video of Rob biting into me, ripping out and swallowing my nipple has stayed in the mind’s of anyone stupid enough to have watched it… it pops into their minds, reward centers are firing…
Those pictures are what defined the last week.
People with their skin pulled away like an anatomy display. People who passed out from pain while their arms were rolled up like a hose.
The Rats don’t know the difference. They tag the pictures with “#art”, with “#smelltheroses”, with “#blessedlife”.
There’s a user called @RatBanksy collecting the dead or those too injured to get away, posing them. He did one of a body holding a copy of the Toronto Sun from the day before it had to stop printing. The headline reads “RATFANGER’S ERUPTS”. He titled the picture “Dewey Defeats Truman”.
Another is one man rolled onto his stomach, his hand reaching towards someone, hands tied behind their back, with an opening in their head, old blood stretching to the end of the frame. The outstretched hand has a single, accusatory finger outstretched. It’s titled “Vietcong execution”.
@RatBanksy started his account Tuesday morning. He’s got more than 44,000 followers on Instagram now.
When people tried to escape Toronto, they discovered help wasn’t as far away as they thought. It just wasn’t helping.
Soldiers, guards, doctors and emergency responders from near areas. No one knew who was infected and who wasn’t. So they kept everyone locked in, hoping whatever was happening wouldn’t spread.
Forced to turn back, unable to get away, some went into hiding. Others turned around and started killing the rioters. Some of them have been coming forward after the rioting ended. Those who haven’t… the city is trying to call in resources to investigate. But there’s no way to tell what really happened. The best case scenario for those honest, guilty few is that the world just forgets about what they did.
Apparently they don’t have the resources to prosecute anyone with all that’s going on.
Meanwhile, people stopped posting pictures of themselves eating, stopped sharing pictures of their kids, stopped “checking in” places. Facebook announced the website’s user participation has slowed rapidly in the last week. Users fear their coworkers, their neighbors, their friends, their family, may have Ratfanger’s.
They’re afraid of being targeted rather than getting “likes”.
Wednesday night in Fresno, a cop shot a homeless man in the face. The cop said he thought the man had Ratfanger’s. A student in Atlanta, a high school kid, was suffering from a case of jaundice. Other kids thought he looked like the people they’d seen on TV. So they beat that kid to death and posted it to YouTube Thursday morning. No charges have been pressed. But you can see clearly in the video who is beating him.
Yet somehow the whole world wants me to turn myself in. They whole world wants me to die.
“Hey…” Sam said, giving a tug to the back of my neck and yanking me into the sterile light of David’s featureless living room. I looked about trying to get some grounding, something to anchor me to where I was, pull me from everything that has been happening. This home, I’ve been hiding here for a week, but none of it stood out from anything else that was going on.
“Hey!” Sam said, tugging harder, until my eyes no longer sought but rested on her. She tilted her head, seeking me. “You’re here with me.”
I looked up and saw that it was true.
She lowered herself down onto me. I had no idea when my pants had come off, how she was able to strip us both without my noticing. I could feel my cock press and push into her, resisted yet warmly welcomed. As she continued to lower, as I felt myself moving deeper into her, she sat upon my lap, her arms loosened and fell behind me against the wall.
Angry gyrations, fingers clasped around my throat… all the things that I’d grown accustomed to did not appear. “You’re here,” she said, not as a whisper because a whisper hides, but as a coo because she knew she had gotten through to me.
I sat enveloped by her and sought the courage to find where her eyes had wondered to.
Eyes communicate more than words ever could. They lift the heart rate, as mine began strumming upwards as if upon a harp, giving context and direction. Anyone who knows how to make a man or a woman cum in any memorable way uses their eyes to do so.
She looked down to me, not to a diverted past or to a distant wish. She looked down to me, seeking a returned gaze.
Without a thrust or grinding of the hips, she held me inside of her until she was all I could take in. The scars upon on her skin, her breasts hanging in front of me, dried sweat at the base of her neck. All the things that made her different than anyone else, all the things that made her different in that moment than she would ever be or had ever been.
My strumming heart hit a note I could not imagine, one I had not foreseen or heard before. Within that note I lost all control and came within her in such a way that I could no longer tell her strength from my warmth, so that all that was her was just as easily me. I tried to hold my breath in place, not wanting to seem weak.
She placed her hand upon my cheek to steady my gaze upon her, “You’re here with me.”
And I looked up at her as she watched me and smiled, relieved. Her eyes did not leave me.
Yet what was in her eyes was not love but sadness.
For I believe she knows now she will lose me soon.