WTM and the Coach

wtm and the coach

soundtrack

Jesus locks and unlocks his new airplane, sending loud electronic yelps through the village. As he pushes the keys on the remote starter, the repetitive “bleep! bleep! bleep! works like an ear-shattering cry for help, and his freshly plucked face squeezes into a pointy smile.  “This is the kind of therapy I probably need” he says.

The therapy he probably needs is a result of the magazine in his hand. The cover is an illustration of Moe  Silverberg’s  satirical novel I Saw Something Nasty in the Manger. On page 57, the Silverberg-owned publication contains a particularly inflammatory excerpt as its centerpiece.

The latest twist in the FMJ trial scandal is that Silverberg’s newsmagazine is cross-promoting his own scathing fiction story, one which resembles – a bit too closely – the actual people and events in FMJ’s glamorous life. Free Market lawyers are already preparing a libel case, but they can’t really move forward to the litigation stage while FMJ himself is being sued from so many angles. There just aren’t enough overpaid hours in a day.

FMJ is taking other steps – besides playing with his obnoxious remote locking-device – to deal with his trauma. Murray Davidson, Registered Professional Motivational Coach – a paid friend to CEOs worldwide – has been hired to build up FMJ’s confidence during his trials. And Jesus has hired a private investigator to dig up some dirt on Moe.

But he still feels vulnerable and victimized. His bottomless well of pride has been filled with tears, and he just hasn’t been the same old messiah/attention-whore that his self-centered associates know and pretend to love so well.

FMJ tucks a thousand-dollar handkerchief into his Gucci slacks: “Sometimes, in the morning rain, I feel like a useless rich bitch who was born into money and just had to kiss all the right asses to succeed. It’s like I live to exploit other people – to bully them out of their human dignity and their spare time  – just so that I can have an obscene number of useless status symbols to ease my isolation and self-inflicted pain.

I can’t even sing my own fucking songs – I get a million-dollars per concert, and yet I can’t even impress my own family at a karaoke bar. But for $450,000 an hour, I go out there onstage in a few tons of makeup and lip-synch the prerecorded track while strutting around in gaudy costumes. The only original talent in my shows are in the costumes and the financing.”

His Registered Professional Motivational Coach turns to FMJ, and speaketh: “You know, Jesus, I think your main issue is that you just don’t believe in yourself enough. And if you don’t believe in yourself, no one else will believe in you either. Always believe in yourself. Always believe that you are a god among men.”

FMJ will repeat this self-love mantra at least twelve times a day. Doctor’s orders.

I Saw Something Nasty
in the Manger

Mortimer Silverberg
(extracted from Chapter 4;
A Gangbang on Salt Street, p. 68)

Ear-shattering noise from a nearby NASCAR race masks her ecstatic screams as White Trash Mary is serial-nailed by Joseph and his buddies from carpentry school. The percussive engine buzz and rouge-tinted air make everyone hornier and hornier.

She takes another deep hit of amyl nitrate, lies back and enjoys each plunge of the non-stop penetration being provided by five well-built Italian jocks with thick, calloused hands. The drug cocktail makes her numb and giddy – she feels like she’s riding a rotating roller coaster sitting on a fleshy, vibrating prod.

Waking up covered in Italian cum a few hours later, WTM sniffs a fat line of coke off the glass table. She catches a reflection of herself as she vacuums up the energy powder. Pantyless and out of breath, she quickly throws on a make-shift toga and a third layer of mascara, and then jumps onto the jet-ski to go and meet her dealer/fuck buddy in the middle of the Dead Sea.

Click for more FMJ

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