Today we bring you another fine Tester’s corner from Tim for Sexy Demon Transformation!
We Can’t Stop Here, This is Youkai Country
Recently I was infected by the decadence of that fearful and loathsome city called Las Vegas. Neon lights swirled all around me like a flamboyant vortex of cheap liquor and cheaper women. At every street corner was another opulently palatial hall where, for a penny a play, you can stare at spinning wheels, mesmerized as if some grand overseer was shaking his keys before you, and sip your Rob Roy or your Martini or your Kangaroo and reach out, with each pull of the lever, for The American Dream that is just a Jackpot away. And along every avenue and boulevard there were garrisoned armies comprised of refugees from Central American states in varying degrees of civil war firing volleys of numbers at passers-by. These numbers, emblazoned across the likenesses of manifold women of negotiable virtue, all claimed to be the true gateways to The American Dream, and by calling these numbers that Dream could be sampled and tasted and reflected upon for the low, low price two hundred dollars an hour. Three hundred if your American Dream involves anal.
But amidst this vapid haze of desert heat and drug store cologne, I realized behind the gold veneers, the bleached teeth, and the ersatz breasts I could find The American Dream. But it was not standing on the streets, or painted like a Technicolor dreamcoat on a revolving wheel, or wrapped around a brass pole. No, I found it in the warm, familiar glow of an old friend while hunched over a coffee table in my hotel room, overlooking the vast bleakness of the Mojave – an endless expanse with nothing to interrupt my view but the curvature of the Earth.
Perhaps I’ve spent too many hours staying dry in a hurricane of magic bullets, but I cast my gaze upon a piously attired maiden and immediately noticed the chasm between her shirt and sleeves and thus her flagrant disregard for underarm modesty. As a connoisseur of the axillas of women of all manner of religious employment, I was drawn to that pallid hollow unguarded by her red and white vestments. I knew The American Dream could be found in those supple depressions.
But my path came to a fork as another potential through-way to the Dream presented itself. Bitterly cold, she stood in stark contrast to the arid heath below the noon sun just beyond my window. But she was no more gracious or hospitable – those inglorious qualities they had very much in common.
With the aid of a few colorful cohorts, I conceived of a plan where I would not have to choose between yin and yang, the boat and the box, the childhood friend and the upperclassman. Thanks to my three hundred pound Samoan demon, I was able not only have my slice of pie, but eat it too.
And as the last vestiges of natural light went dark across the city still fully illuminated by neon, as I still sat in front of that coffee table listening to the low hum of my little friend’s hard drive, I finally reached the end of my search. I had finally discovered what The American Dream is. The answer was so simple, I should have known it all along. It all boils down to one concept:
You gotta catch ’em all.