A Lake of Fire, Chapter Two

In the back seats of the movie theater, the white man’s jaws worked furiously, his too-big cowboy hat sticking out above the rows of alternately shadowed and illuminated faces. Across the darkness, Dr. Martin Luther King watched and whispered to himself, ‘Jesus fucking Christ… Lyndon Johnson.’ A world-class turd if ever he had met one. Johnson always was a noisy fucker, and this was no exception. He opened his giant maw, pushing in wads of popcorn and chewing vulgarly, with his glassy eyes pasted to the screen as DeCaprio and Winslet pawed each other aboard the doomed Titanic.

King spotted the movements: a head of raven-black hair bobbed carefully in Johnson’s lap. The arched shape of cocksucker’s shoulders and round ass just barely discernable from where he watched. Beneath Johnson’s crunching and snorts, a soft vacuum of a mouth smacked audibly on his pecker.

Clearly annoyed, the viewers around him craned their necks and grumbled to one another. Johnson did not seem to notice, or perhaps he noticed and just did not care. He was probably drunk. No one dared interrupt the movie to quiet him, because they feared and avoided confrontations of any sort. But that was why they were in Heaven: for being patient and kind and accommodating all their lives. They had suffered the selfishness of assholes like this man, day after day. Who would have ever imagined that the Afterlife would offer no end to their aggravation? Ever tolerant, it opened its gates to every clods – the ignorant, unmannered creeps and bums of the world.

King’s smiled. When he walked the Earth, he would have preached that we extend charity toward a louse like that. ‘Judge not lest ye be judged’ and so on. But now, liberated from his colossal burdens, King was simply, darkly satisfied that the hypocrisies of the human world continued into the next one. And was it really so surprising? People weigh their own goodness against those they can safely look down upon. All people are small and petty in the end – and even beyond the end. King laughed to himself and swallowed the last drops of soda from a long-necked, glass bottle.

Besides, King hadn’t come here to watch a movie. He had come to fuck some hot snatch.

He was repulsed by the sight and sounds of Lyndon Johnson being fellated, but tingles ran involuntarily through his crotch. It was so public, and so very cheap. King’s cock straightened down his thigh. His boxers tightened. He shifted in his seat for the best view, running a finger along the length of the snake that was uncoiling within his pant leg.