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This precendent setting parable came to pass in the Prohibition Years long before the prophet of the space-faring fuck factories, Johannus Sebastiannus, opened us up to the Mozart Machine Annual Passion of soft focus nostalgia bathed in fist-warmed lubricating oil. A crude time in many respects where straight genital relations were considered an archaic perversion, the pistol had become the global love token exchanged across the black altar of consent, the bullet a baptism on the forehead of any baby, boy or girl. As a bonus, corrective surgery on the National Health was an illicit free for all. Size of ammunition is usually expressed in terms of calibre, which is the diameter of the projectile as measured in millimetres or inches. Projectiles less than 20 mm or .60 inch in diameter are classified as small-arm, and larger calibres are considered artillery. A complete round of ammunition consists of all the components necessary for one firing of the gun. These normally include a projectile, the propellant, and a primer that ignites the propellant. Small-arms ammunition is always of the fixed type; complete rounds are usually called cartridges, and projectiles are called bullets (or shot in shotguns). Cartridge cases are most commonly made of brass, although steel is also widely used, and cases for shotgun pellets are made of brass and cardboard. The cases of most military rifles and machine guns have a bottleneck shape, allowing a small-calibre bullet to be fitted to a large propelling charge. Special-purpose ammunition includes armour-piercing rounds, which fire bullets that have cores of hardened steel or some other metal such as tungsten carbide. Tracer bullets have a column of pyrotechnic composition in the base that is ignited by the flame of the propellant; this provides a visible pyrotechnic display during the bullet's flight. Incendiary bullets, intended to ignite flammable materials such as gasoline, contain a charge of chemical incendiary agent. Number one of three real pains in Brenda Moran's directionless life was the reality of human ammunition. The pure calibre of sexual promise, the hard body of deafening lullabies that screamed her awake just as she was finally falling off the adrenaline edge after another long shift down at the Kops-R-Us Franchise. Ever see a woman fuck herself with a rubber dum dum bullet 'cos you're holding a clipless semi-automatic of ruthless pistol-whipping to her bruised and lacerated face? Ever come across a back street whore with shot out lower spine just for barking too loud at a punter unwilling to pay for a fist up the arse when all he wanted was an afternoon tea and a cock suck for dessert? Or the broken fist evangelist with half a thuggish face blown off for some smart-ass comment in the wrong bar? Hard to believe the depths of the abuse of human ammunition, as she'd put it. You name it, in her time on Homicide, Brenda Moran had seen it all. The GIGO History Kubez used to call it Haunted Chicago, because of its dark past and misguided memories of the hows the whens and the whyfors. Chicago had architecturally degenerated since its shoot-out heyday, now it was a postulant skin of death's cap mushroom high rises staining the Bluto Blotter paper sky. The scarlet streets were choked with spore smog any time of the year now that the sun refused to shine down on what was left of Massacre City. You could smell Chicago coming long before the old, dying sun had its meagre rays eaten up by the shady parts crawling over the mutating horizon, frenzied murder after murder. Brenda Moran had a red room in her 24th story apartment grown from living fungus and smelling of rot and shade. Her bed was more of a cot than a single bed, something you would get out of the dusty garage and throw together to put up an intelligent guy you just met in a bar. No fucker wants to fuck an intelligent guy, you know. You just want them to sleep off their charm and get the hell out of your life – forever. Like any bed in the City of Red Light – it stank of gunpowder after the rain, and the pheromone sweat of the nightmare factory churning out high resolution snuff on a screen the texture of evisceration and goose pimples at gunpoint. Brenda Moran was just an ordinary brunette with a badge, on the outside. Penetrating her trembling choux layers of fuckable pastry and geometry of gun crime, she was a cocked hammer liberated by the need to fuck or be a part of the fuck. On the inside, deep down where memories of marrow drilled bone and salt saturated thigh meat were grown on nerve plates that showed tectonic unrest, she would take the place of the bullet in her homicide investigations. Bullet Sex she called her hypnogogic state. Her eyes would milk over grey white like thick goat's cream. She would become the bullet carved from pure, mathematical trajectory rushing through an evaporating medium of lust. She recognised reflections of herself in many guises throughout the endless rewrites of the GIGO History Kubez that sang her to sleep as a youth, recognised DNA subtexts in every Kirlian hologram show. Brenda Moran wore a double-breasted blue dress suit to the Kops-R-Us Franchise building. The soft, camel skin buttons were aligned so that they looked like inviting nipples caressed by baby powder in the West Side sunset, if you really squinted and used all your powers of creativity, that is. She had a super thin tongue you could fit down one of the barrels of a twelve Bore shotgun. You could taste the potential for death, she is recorded as having murmured at the height of her self-fulfilling sexual hiatus throat clogged with split open shotgun shells on her way to ER, that last night. Single Bullet Brenda, she referred to herself, because she had only ever taken one bullet. She was ashamed to admit that maybe she was immune to Cupid's love slug. She had always worked alone, without backup, only way to stop the vibe from the partner interfering with your line of sight. She had died in a ghost of gunsmoke on her very first case out of Kops-R-Us School out of Lampoonsville, three years previous. It took one bullet to bring her down, left her for dead in a rain drenched back-alley while the sirens played their melancholy tune. Or rather, where she should have died, now she carries the single bullet around with her everywhere she goes, her worthless life a living osmosis filtering dry powder, cotton lint and burning lead through an evisceration of extreme orgasmic energy. Of course, one shot is never enough. An elongated metal projectile, the bullet is fired by a pistol, rifle, or machine gun. Bullets are measured by their calibre, which indicates the interior diameter, or bore, of a gun barrel. A modern bullet consists of a tube (the cartridge case) with the bullet affixed at the front end, the percussion cap or primer at the base, and the propellant powder contained in the tube between. Upon being struck by the gun's firing pin, the percussion cap detonates and ignites the propellant; the resulting rapid expansion of gases in the gun's closed firing chamber propels the bullet forward at high velocity down the bore. The cartridge case is left in the chamber and must be ejected by mechanical means. Most pistol bullets are made of a lead-antimony alloy encased in a soft brass or copper-plated soft steel jacket. In rifle and machine-gun bullets, a soft core of lead is encased in a harder jacket of steel or cupronickel. Armour-piercing bullets have a hardened-steel inner core. Expanding bullets, used in game hunting and long outlawed in war, are made with an exposed nose of soft metal, which will push back into the jacketed portion to deform it on impact, enlarging the wound and increasing the shock of the impact. There were no real, living, breathing men in Brenda Moran's life, only the male of the bullet; it's ejaculated load passing through boiling voids of human glamour. Spinning prettily in fate's general direction, adjacent to the plane. She lived only to experience Bullet Sex, feared it yet needed it, like all addicted junk fiends lost in a back alley of swirling blackness and a pool of piss the colour and viscosity of menstrual blood. Can one become immune to the cataleptic kiss of the bullet? Can one so saturate oneself as to become at one with the poisons of its manufacture and proper functioning? Can one consistently survive the deadly charm of armour-piercing steel? It was just about the 14th of February all over planet mushroom. Time again for mother to shoot baby boy's fucking fingers off and daddy to shove a twelve bore up his niece's little love crease for the jolly celebration of yet another St Valentine's Massacre Day. This time of the year was when it was hardest to sort accidental leisure deaths from serious premeditated murder. For millennia, the spores had saturated the greenhouse air and laid their progeny on windowsill and palatial lawn and government building alike. The mutations took years to perfect their forms and initially they made nice sculptures in Oak Park. The locals and tourists alike would have their holograms professionally scanned in front of these termite hill sized monstrosities. For months, they became delicacies in Nouveau Riche restaurants before the tales of vagrant spongiforms growing from clients foreheads as they fucked each other to death in the fungus hunger hours after that meal should have been long digested and evicted from the premises. But it was the death's cap that prevailed, there were intercranial science broadcasts that showed cross sections through these living structures all globular and podlike then some corporate research house had the cunnilingus idea to train them to grow into human accommodation; became all the rage with the high rollers until the clever money moved out and the slum landlords moved in. Some things will never change. Chicago's weather evoked the stunned reaction to a daylight shooting in a private restaurant. Rivers of semen marbled blood flowed through the streets like New Venice; hence the City of Red Light. It's like the town was constantly on fire such was the fungus glowing palette of the everyday. How Brenda Moran needed to bite her bullet. A mixture of nitric esters of cellulose and a highly flammable compound that is the main ingredient of modern gunpowder, nitrocellulose is a fluffy white substance that retains some of the fibrous structure of untreated cellulose. It is not stable to heat, and even carefully prepared samples will ignite on brief heating to more than about 150º C (300º F). When nitrocellulose decomposes, it forms products that catalyse further decomposition; this reaction, if not stopped in time, results in an explosion. The manufacturing process uses either cotton linters or wood pulp as the source of cellulose. These materials are treated in a mixture of nitric and sulphuric acid at a ratio of one part cellulose to thirty parts acid. Most of the spent acid is removed by centrifuging the moist nitrocellulose, which is washed in a large quantity of water and is then subjected to boiling in acidified water to eliminate the remaining unstable by-products of nitration. The material is then pulped to disintegrate the cellulose fibres, and a subsequent washing removes the last traces of acid. Wood pulp is the preferred material for nitrocellulose used as a gun propellant. If cotton is treated until almost all of the cellulose molecules' hydroxyl groups have been esterified but the molecules' structure has not yet been broken down, the result is guncotton. This form of nitrocellulose has more than 13 percent nitrogen and is soluble in acetone but not in ether and alcohol. It is used for propellants, either alone or combined with nitro-glycerine. They first met over champers, the woman and her trajectorial obsession. She could feel his dull metal greyness vibrating in his owner's breast holster, devoid of interpersonal luggage but oh so invigorating to be near. The potential for threat made her wet like no flesh and blood Casanova. She was at her daddy's retirement party and all his piss-taking Kops-Were-Us buddies had arrived there on time to see him off cased up with beer and donuts in honour of the great tradition. Like daughter like daddy, you could hear the Kops-Were-Us gang burpin' and fartin' and cussin' all the way down the screamin' baby hallway, broken walls hiding nothing. Sculptured marble nudes on the veranda overlooked Chicago's dead zone of fungal infection like all her dead silhouettes of reality carved by a paramour's calloused hand. The rain lashed down as the single bullet carved through the air – you could see it evaporating individual droplets of rain on its way to her chest, ripping open her pulsating ribcage to her stillborn heart beneath; cold as Boxing Day turkey. Arms outstretched like a Messianic dove. Orgasm tunnelling molten steel. Life's a real knife-edge when you are 4/5ths gunshot and 1/5th gunbarrel. Brenda Moran took her fill from the pig trough of propulsion. The blast sent her all the way across the veranda. She climaxed again and again as the silhouette stood over her, rain dripping down off his throbbing cocked pistol. After that first shot of love, she spent fifteen minutes vomitting up the toxic compounds into a greasy pool while the silhouette inserted the barrel of his gun into his own anus, the gun sight cutting the delicate membrane rubbing the white hot tip of the gun barrel under a kidney, pissing in his fishing dungarees, the perfume of an expended shell tinkling to the concrete floor like an orchid opening to full bloom. Brenda Moran forgot to just pass away and die like any normal fuckwit on St Valentine's Massacre Day to be resurrected by corrective surgery and inhuman transplants from the pig farm steaming down from the North Side on a bad wind day. She pulled herself up to a seated position, gun stains and broken teeth all down her sweat shining breasts. Her clothes abandoned her like molting snake skin and every nerve, every fibre, follicle goose pimple, engorged nipple, labial grace clitoral leapt into the electrostatic air. In her shot blasted face a 450 calibre browning protruded from the musky chest of the silhouette of love, his cock the colour of war footage as the rain beat down on its circumcised rim. Like a black gull wing sculpture, he opened up all barrels whirring right into the back of her head full cock. She remembered the muzzle flash burning her eyes to mercury pools and fought off the urge to claw her face off with her fingernails. He lay on top of her, his rough palms like wire wool covered her face so that, even if she could recover from her mortal bullet fucking, she wouldn't be able to bathe in air, eat oxygen to fuel her fires, gulp gasoline into her boiling lungs and ignite the world with a kiss. She would die like this under her mystery lover's crushing mass, an exalted ending as the sun set on St Valentine's Massacre Day in the City of Red Light.
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