The Pussy Games

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perfect pussy

Down a dark road, menacing shadows lurk behind scorched trees. It is 2043. The Event shook Earth not long after the winter of 2014, when many claimed “they could not stand another moment of this cold,” and a fire burst forth to burn all land and kill the weak. The only creatures that remained among the ash were the strong, the delinquent. The internet is over, blogs are dead. Rough Trade never had its first show. Death Grips never foiled another festival.

The road, formally known as Bedford Avenue, is now black with soot and lined with fires. An occasional trashbag rolls by and a looped stereo plays a melted recording of a limited edition cassette, the artist unknown, but whose plastic is prominently stamped with courier new typeface, the lasting imprints of GODMODE. Nary a human is in sight—the last on Earth are gathered somewhere else in Brooklyn (now known as SPEKTOR), at the hollowed-out gladiators' pit that takes up the former Barclays Center.

The Pussy Games are about to begin.

LORD GANSETT: Fellow cretins, lowlifes, animals, and vampires. It is on this day that we enter into The Pussy Games. The rules, should you choose to follow them, are simple. There is but one remaining copy of Perfect Pussy's Say Yes to Love LP. It was found by your Queen, Claire Boucher Jr., in the burning rubble of the Captured Tracks record store. It is the only place left in all of SPEKTOR to taste the blood of a young human woman. One vampire and one pervert will enter Thee Ring of Pussy and fight to the death. The survivor may eat the LP, to ingest the blood, and gain the power of fifty men. That champion will then become Supreme Lord of SPEKTOR.

The crowd cheers uproariously.

LORD GANSETT: SILENCE. Let the fighting begin!

In the ring, a timid shell of a man, whose thumbs are calloused and whose skin is the color of tea-stained bone, makes anxious eye contact with Nosferatu, fangs revealed over his bottom lip, a dirty Dipset cape draped over his frail body. The two circle each other slowly, the LP in its protective vinyl sleeve hanging low over the dust-covered pit. They can both smell the blood. They want it.

A scuffle occurs, and the pervert is taken to the ground. He yelps with unease beneath the grasp of the stronger vampire. “It isn't supposed to be this way!” he is heard saying beneath the fray. “I saw it on /r apocalypse! The humans always win!!” A piercing squeal exits his mouth as Nosferatu's fangs burst into the pervert's milky skin.

He is the champion. Nosferatu scrambles to pull down Say Yes to Love from its hanging point above the bloody pit, and breaks open the packaging carelessly. The crowd gasps. One collector faints. Nosferatu bites into the vinyl, like it is an oversize disposable tortilla chip, and his body begins to grow, his complexion ruddier, his disposition more confident.

NOSFERATU: Blood of young punk woman from former Earth planet, YOU HAVE MADE ME STRONG AGAIN. I SAY YES TO LOVE—THE LOVE OF YOUNG PUNK WOMAN'S BLOOD. I SAY YES TO YOU.

He collapses in a joyful repose in the middle of the former Barclays Center, hugging the broken vinyl tight to his body. In the background, a warbled Yvette song can be heard twitching through the twilight.

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