Brownie

The meeting was supposed to take place at one in the morning on a well-maintained ranch in the middle of Bumblefuck, Texas. The cost to find the date and location of this meeting was at least ten-thousand dollars, all to be paid in advance. Of course, I didn't pay a dime to find all this out. I’d gotten the info of where the Camera de Paraveredus was meeting from a fellow named Armand Richard (“It’s pronounced REE-shard, not ‘Richard’) who had it in for these bastards. I would be the sole person there of marginal employment or social standing. That night, I would be rubbing shoulders with people who were politicians, nobility (or as close to what our country will admit to), and assorted Captains of Industry.

I parked my car--a rapidly disintegrating twenty-year old Honda Civic--on the edge of the road and decided to walk the rest of the way to the ranch. I figured it would look conspicuous to have a valet park a car that’s worth maybe two-hundred dollars and uses a bungee cord to keep the hood from popping open. As I walked up the road, black Rolls Royces, Bentleys, and limousines slipped quietly past me in the night.

When I came within fifty paces of the ranch I donned my disguise; an ornate Mardi Gras mask and a cape. Perfect for going to secret, middle of the night meetings of groups that have ominous Latin names. All the limos were being parked by the stable, so headed over there. There was a young man in a tuxedo standing by the entrance with a stack of playing cards. He looked at me funny when I stepped up, but still picked a card from the top of the stack and tore it in half, handing one piece to me and dropping the other into a bin. I was the Jack of Diamonds.

When I stepped inside the stable, I immediately realized I was overdressed. I was expecting something like Eyes Wide Shut, but most of the fellows were just wearing thick flannel shirts and down parkas. They wandered about the stable, some of them talking and laughing with each other, clinking snifters of brandy. In the corner of the stable there was something like a buffet table set up, only this one was loaded with drugs. There were stacks of Oxycontins, Seconals, Quaaludes, a silver platter of Space Cakes, a silver platter of cocaine, and a fucking mountain of amyl nitrates.

Since I had not paid to be here and already looked ridiculous in my Mardi Gras mask, I went over and immediately helped myself to the drugs, figuring I should just do as the Romans do and perhaps give myself some confidence. A couple lines of coke and Quaalude would do it. Oh fuck it, I cracked an amyl nitrate under my nose and let it rush through my body like a tsunami wave.

When I came down from the initial rush, I noticed the Arabian horses set up in the corners of the stable. They were huge, magnificent beasts. Under one of them was a fellow jerking off the horse’s enormous schlong until it sprayed its semen. The stable hand did his best to try and catch as much of the horse semen into these large glass beakers he had sitting in the ground behind him. This was so bizarre that I pulled off my mask and buried my nose into the platter of cocaine again, Scarface style, just to get my bearings.

Another tuxedoed fellow entered the stable, followed by the fellow who was tearing the cards at the door, and he clinked the side of a champagne glass with a fancy metal pen. “The one o’clock hour has come, and we will inaugurate this week’s Camera de Paraveredus with a short incantation to the God Pan; the half-man, half-goat trixter of the woods…”

He started doing some Latin incantations while everyone bowed their heads and closed their eyes. I understood exactly zilch of what they were saying, so I busied myself by dipping my fingers into the cocaine and rubbing it on my gums (it was really good cocaine) until they finished.

When tuxedo man finished, he clinked his glass again. “Yes, very well. Now bring forth the cards. We shall see which lucky soul will receive the essence of the Paraveredus…”

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I was sitting at home last Monday night, fretting over having my account anonymized on this fucking site once again and writing pleading e-mails to Rusty when I received a call from some black guy. I thought it was a telemarketer and was about to tell him to fuck off, but it was actually the aforementioned Armand Richard.

“Okay, Armand. Why should I care who you are? And how did you get the number to my mother’s house?”

“I got it from the webmaster of some site you post on,” Armand explained. “Originally, I came to him with the story, but he said it was so fantastic that no one would believe it. He gave me your number because he said you had zero credibility and would print just about anything…”

Fucking Rusty....“Thanks,” I grumbled. “Fuck you and goodbye.”

“Wait, wait…” he said. “Just listen to me first. I think this story is right up your alley. Besides, you owe the black community after that Choose Your Own Adventure bullshit…”

I paused, then sighed, then said, “Okay, lay it on me.”

Armand Richard was born in the Deep South, but grew up in New Mexico, where he lived near a ranch and learned how to tend to horses. “I always loved horses. I just really like dealing with animals period, but I especially like horses.”

As he got more experience in horse-world, Armand got a great reputation for being able to handle all sorts of rare breeds. In the mid-Nineties, he moved up to Colorado to work for an organization that conducted horse shows.

"You love horses. You're good at handling horses. You got a job working with horses. So. Fucking. What?"

"The organization I worked for was the International Arabian Horse Association. Does that ring a bell?"

"Sort of..." I said.

"Well let me ring it harder. It's the sole major credential of our current director of a little organization called FEMA."

Oh shit...I thought. Major news. Major scoop. If I played this right, I could be the next Anderson Cooper or Shepard Smith. "Please, Mr. Richard, tell me more," I said.

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The first card drawn was the Two of Clubs. "Come forward, Seeker..." the tuxedoed man announced, holding the card up in the air. "Come and claim the essence."

A guy who looked to be in his mid-forties came forward and the crowd of men cheered. The man looked both bashful and elated at being chosen. There was no denying the nervousness in his eager stance. He stood next to the tuxedoed man and cracked an amyl nitrate under his nose as two other attendants brought forth a wooden sawhorse.

"Please, drop your lower garment and take the position, Seeker."

The man dropped his pants and bent over the sawhorse. One of the attendants came up behind him carrying a bucket of Crisco and a rubber glove and proceeded to grease up the man's hairy ass crack. Another attendant was in front of the man, cracking amyl after amyl under the man's nose until he was delirious.

"Bring forth the Paraveredus!" the tuxedoed man announced. The huge Arabian horse snorted as it was brought forward by the attendant who had jerked him off before. The other attendants worked of greasing the horses humungous erect schlong with Crisco as well.

Perhaps you've stumbled upon the mrhands.mpg video before. I had seen it (and posted Poopylinks to it) and had heard a detailed description of what occured at these Camera de Paraveredus events a few days before from Mr. Richard. Still, I will tell you that even on enough coke and 'ludes to make my face feel completely numb, witnessing a man being sodomized with a horse cock is still a brutal event.

For one thing, it took much longer than in the "Mr. Hands" video. The smell of blood, shit and hay permeated even my coke floured nostrils. I was disgusted, but the rest of the crowd seemed profoundly engaged with the act. The fellow next to me whispered, "I hope I get chosen this time. They only choose three Seekers a night for the Paraveredus."

I nearly handed him my half of a playing card and said, "Here, double your chances." I couldn't fathom what sort of mind would subject themselves to this, but I had to be careful not to blow my cover.

This Arabian horse must have been trained for this. Or maybe it received a good dose of horse Viagra, for it lasted for a good five minutes before blowing it's horse muck and pulling out limply. The man fell off the sawhorse, barely conscious and bleeding a river from his anus. The look on his face was somewhere between agony and ecstacy. The crowd cheered as the attendants picked him up and carried him to a gurney, where they checked his blood pressure, gave him oxygen, and began packing his ass with gauze and styptic.

"That was truly glorious what we have just witnessed," the tuxedoed man opined. "To see the essence of Paraveredus passed onto the Seeker is always a sight to behold." He held up the glass beaker of horse sperm. "Each of the lucky Seekers tonight will receive a gift of the essence to take home with them and be consumed at their leisure."

"Now, let us adjourn for fifteen minutes, basking in the lifeforce of Pan and his aphrodisiacs, before the next Seeker is chosen."

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After Armand finished his description to me, I just snorted. "Bullshit. That's gotta be an urban myth."

He chuckled on the other end of the line. "I swear to you, it is absolutely true. I could even tell you where the next one is being held. I still have friends who work for the Registry who can find out when it's going down." (Due to scandal and financial problems, the International Arabian Horse Association was merged with the Arabian Horse Registry of America.)

"So the IAHA's real job is to set up these horse-fucking events?"

"No. Not officially. The IAHA just concerns itself with breeding and horse shows and so forth. The Camera de Paraveredus--which is Latin for 'Chamber of Horses'--, is mostly a sideshow, run by people at the top of the organization. They are the ones who have the money and the contacts to set these things up."

"People at the top of the organization like Mike Brown?"

"Exact-a-mundo," Armand said. "In fact--though I wasn't working for the IAHA at the time--I heard from other guys there that he was the one who started the Camera, and it is a fucking cash cow. It costs several thousand dollars to even attend an event. Only a few people get chosen each time to be, you know, fucked by the horse. So those who don't get chosen keep paying and paying until they finally get what they paid for. In fact, they built a whole cult religion over the act of having sex with horses. Believe me, they make bank doing this."

"They worship horses? Break down for me exactly what these fuckers believe?"

"I don't know and I don't want to know; it's nothing a good Baptist would concern himself with," Armand said. "I only witnessed it once first hand. They paid us a lot of money to keep quiet, and the non-disclosure agreement was pretty airtight. With the disaster in New Orleans though, I figure I'm pretty safe talking to you."

"I know that Mike Brown had to resign from the organization in disgrace. Was it over this?"

"It could be, since the Camera was pretty common knowledge to many people in the organization," Armand said. "Of course the official reason he got canned was over his fundraising methods in fighting a lawsuit against a fellow named David Boggs. But I don't think the real reason on how he raised those fund ever came to light. Anyway, it made so much money that someone in the organization was bound to continue doing it."

I chuckled. "I always wondered how a failed lawyer and horse show director got a major seat at the Bush administration's table. It takes more than being the college roommate of the director of FEMA. It takes 'campaign contributions'. I'm just delighted that Bush was helped into office with horse fucking dollars. I wonder how that would sit with his homies in the Religious Reich."

"If you follow the paper trail of Brown's contributions, I'm sure you'll come up short," Armand said. "These guys know how to cover their tracks well. But I think bringing this to light will be enough to let people draw their own conclusions."

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During the intermission I did another amyl, swallowed another 'lude, and did a few more lines of cocaine. The rest of the fellows were looking peeved that I was hogging all the yayo. My heart was racing a mile a minute and I was sweating buckets even though the temperature must have been about forty degrees in the stable. I finished my line and figured I'd better quit before I go into cardiac arrest.

More clinking of champagne glasses. "Attention, attention, fellow Seekers. Come, it is time for us to choose who will next receive the essence of the Paraveredus!"

I didn't particularly want to watch this whole ordeal again. Seeing it once was unnerving enough. But I had to keep up appearances. Everybody was circling around the tuxedoed MC as he rifled through the box. They each held their torn halves of playing cards, tensely hoping they would be the ones to get the great honor of having their sphincter and lower intestine mashed into bloody pulp by a horse's oversized dick. I glanced over at the last victim, laying on the gurney with the gauze in his ass quickly being soaked through with his blood. He gripped his prized beaker of horse sperm like it was an Oscar while the attendants prepared him for a blood transfusion. I wondered what sort of crazed mindset one would have to have to consider him the lucky one?

The tuxedoed MC stopped rifling through the cards and announced, "We have found the second Seeker of the evening. He will be..." he said, pausing to milk as much tension out of this as he could. "...the Jack of Diamonds."

It wasn't all the coke I snorted that night that made my heart stop for a second. Everybody started cheering, and the only thought that raced through my head was "Oh shit..."

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"Haven't people died from doing this shit?" I asked Armand while a twirled away in my swivel chair. In the other room, I heard my obese mother's honking laughter. She was obviously watching That 70's Show again... "I thought I read in May that someone got killed getting sodomized by a horse..."

"Yes people have died, and that person in back in May wasn't the first one. Usually the 'Seekers' or whatever they call themselves, get pretty good medical attention right afterwards, otherwise almost all of them would be dead. But sometimes the damage is just too extensive. In the time I was there, at least three people died from this. The Camera always was good about covering their tracks--they always had cover stories in place and the right people paid off from the coroner on down. I mean, all the people at these things are rich people; important people with reputations to uphold. Those huge fees they pay are mostly insurance. They do it so they can get fucked by a horse and not have it ruin everything they spent their lives building."

Armand sighed. "I guess they've just gotten sloppier about covering this up since Brownie got ousted."

"I have to ask, especially since these are some pretty crazy allegations," I said. "Why are you coming forward with all this now?"

"Several reasons," Armand said. "Partially revenge. I mean, my dad was born in New Orleans, so I feel sentimental about the city. My aunt has a house in Biloxi. She got out okay, but her place and everything in it got ruined. Also, with all these guys in the news with scandals brewing, I think I can talk about this and not have to worry too much about retaliation. I'm betting they'll just let those non-disclosure agreements slide..."

Armand continued, "Most of all, I think this is something the public needs to discuss. I mean, we watch the stuff on the news about New Orleans, and everybody is saying how this incident cuts to the bone of race and class in America. But I think this horse fucking scandal is what really defines class in this country. I mean, there's a lot more poor people in this world than there are rich, so it's not inconceivable that deep down in their sinful hearts, some of them really crave some horse dick. The difference is that a poor person can't pay thousands and thousands of dollar just for the chance they might get fucked by a horse. Most of them just get married, shuffle off to their dead-end jobs, and maybe think about--I don't know, maybe Mr. Ed--while they get down with their missus. In this society, the rich can cater to any perversion they can conceive. Since they run everything, I think it just mires our society in decadence.

"I just hope that by speaking with you, perhaps we can show the light to these wayward souls."

I was moved by his speechifying. "So, I take it you want all this on the record then..."

"Yes," Armand said. "Absolutely I do."

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"Drop your garment and take the position," the tuxedoed MC said. I don't know why I even stepped up to the sawhorse, since there was no way I was going through with this. I'd done just about enough to maintain my cover, I wasn't going to get buttfucked by a horse to keep up appearances.

One of the attendants came up dutifully behind me with his vat of Crisco. "Please bring down your trousers sir," he said with a Britsh lilt to his voice. "The taking of the essence is especially painful if you haven't been properly greased."

I looked at him, then I looked at the MC, then I looked at the Arabian horse being brought up behind me, his schlong pointing out eagerly and said, "Uh, I've changed my mind. I don't want to do this."

There was a gasp throughout the stable, "But...to receive the essence of the Paraveredus is a great honor sir," the MC stammered. "You cannot just say no."

"Well, I'm saying no, Jeeves. You want the honor, go ahead and take my place."

"I KNEW IT!" the fellow who had been tearing the cards at the door yelled as he pointed towards me. "I knew he was an interloper when I saw him!"

There was another gasp from the crowd, which was beginning to close in on me. I was flying on about seven lines worth of cocaine confidence, so I wasn't really muffed. "Do you people realize how fucking sick you all are? Jesus H. Christ on a rubber crutch this is foul."

"You dare defile the Camera de Paraveredus with this blasphemy?" the tuxedoed MC said, his face red and looking like it was going to burst. "GRAB HIM!"

A couple of the attendants went for my arms, but I was so coked up I beat them away easily. I ran across the stable to where the last Seeker was laying and snatched the glass beaker of horse sperm out of his hands. The tuxedoed MC tackled me from behind and we wrestled for a second before I shoved him off. He was moving in to pin me again when I brought the beaker down on his head, shattering it and drenching him is milky, goopy horse nut. I couldn't help but laugh; it was like a bukkake movie you might see on some twisted version of Animal Planet.

This pissed the MC off even more. "You spilled the Holy essence! Die infidel!" He came at me again but I took the jagged end of the beaker and rammed it into his cheek. A shard of glass slipped into his eyeball popping it. Jeeves fell to the hay and horseshit covered ground screaming like a little girl.

I waved the blood and horse semen covered shard of glass in front of me, screaming "STAY BACK! STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME YOU FILTHY HORSE FUCKERS!" as I backed towards the stable's exit. I went slowly, carefully, making sure none of those sickos flanked me. I burst out the door into the September night, running like a motherfucker in near total darkness up the dirt path in direction where I ditched my old Civic. My heart was beating so fast from the running and the cocaine that I thought it was going explode out of chest like the monster inAlien. Even though I was pretty sure that I hadn't been followed, I still throttled as much speed out of that Civic as its little V-4 engine could muster.

I calmed down after about ten miles and couple of minutes worth of soothing AM band country music. I could desperately use a shot of Jameson just about now, but I was covered in the gamey smell of horse sperm. Besides, I think I was driving through a dry county anyway. Once the fear subsided, it was replaced with disappointment. I knew what I had just witnessed was so bizarre and so twisted that no one would believe me if I wrote it. THAT is probably the Camera de Paraveredus biggest defense against being outed to the world. The little ceremony dreamed up by our current FEMA director Mike Brown is too crazy to be true. It exists in the blindspot of Joe and Josephine Q. Public and their little worlds of tract homes, SUVs, and church on Sunday.

But, I must tell the public what I witnessed, if only to confirm to myself that it was reality and not just a nightmare.

ADDENDUM

The preceeding was written before Michael Brown's resignation from FEMA last week, making it the third job he is officially a failure at. Delays in bringing this to you can be attributed to the anonymization of my account last week, but I'm through whining over that.

On Friday, I received a letter at my mother's house with no return address, containing simply a clipping from an Albequerque newspaper, the headline reading: LOCAL MAN MAN DEAD IN BIZARRE INCIDENT. It turned out that my source, Armand Richard, was found dead. He died from a hemmorage resulting from a perforated colon which was apparently inflicted by one of the horses at his personal stable. All the evidence pointed to an act of bestiality. I began to believe that poor Armand may have just been another horse fucker too, but the coroner was still examining his body because of the unusual amount of defensive wounds on his body.

So I publish this to serve a dual purpose: partly to honor the sacrifice of Armand Richard, who bravely brought me this story. Partly to cover myself from any retribution of the Camera de Paraveredus may be planning, since there is no use in silencing me once this becomes public.

Most of all, I write this to further shame our negligent public officials. Personally, I could give a fuck what rich people do in the privacy of their own stables, even if it's something as distasteful as being sodomized by a horse. I however give MANY fucks when it's American public being sodomized.