Commando Ex (an excerpt)


COMMANDO EX        Let’s not do this slow, no, let’s get the words out fast, yes, steam through the history, gas, pass, Commando Ex got class, crass?

Here comes, hold it now, the rise and droppings, the stiffenings and squirtings, the balls-and-jacks beginnings of a never-ending life-suspending continent-hopping mind-expanding experience-stretching story: the life and times, the lays and plays, the huck and suck of an antsy chancy ice cream cone of a fella; a dope-smoking, seed-choking, penis-poking freedom flighter, wronged and righter, cycle rider, self-propelled glider. So…bang your horn, blow your drum, drip your cum and armchair his fun…for the whirl and curl of it, the hop skip and jump of it, the fantasyzing fun of it, the jocular joy of it. Let’s leave truth and exaggeration behind, get into the smash bang crunch of this singular demolition derby of a guy, a liver, a lover, a kisser, a hugger…a grabber of balls, squeezer of twats, teaser of cultures, a galactic whirlwind of a self-proclaimed Commando, the one, the only, the visa-defying terrifying moan and sighing Ex

travagant, uberant, pedocious, traordinary, treme, orbitant…ah, yes…actly!

Look, now, at this backpacking, hulk strapping, bone cracking fellow, fresh from a river bath, as French-speaking Africans steal silent eyefuls of this copper body, heavy dong swinging, balls hanging like turkey eggs, elephant leathery–a wide-chested sculpted Adonis, blue eyed sandy haired, Australian accented, glistening wet sweat of a boy-man who just jumped the river on his 700cc Motoguzzi motorcycle as lazed fishermen popped their eyeballs into their nets as he soared. Nothing like some morning action to wake up the day.

Hey! What’s the Commando doing in Africa? Last seen tucking a Coca-Cola under his belt and showering the sand of the Spanish Sahara on both sides of his bellowing machine as he streamed across the desert single-handed and multi-purposed, here he now pops at the river Niger washing out the scratchy Sahara sand and doing a little of his showing off to get the natives whispering and to keep from any hassling. Because no one likes to bother a man on a roaring mutha of a bike which churns sand, earth, road and air at devilish speeds, no, sir, even the law is wary of starting with a man possessed, because here in Africa, any man who does what Ex just did has got to be a little wacko in the upstairs…and you don’t fuck around with a crazy, not while there’re spirits watching. And did you see the size of his lance, by chance? Did you get a glance at his glans? Bring on the womenfolk, let’s see how he can poke, throw him a J to smoke, Commando’s set to start a cult. Eeeee, how long can this go on?

Listen. And forget what you’ve heard about Paul Revered. Blank from the memory tales of contemporaries. Commando’s in charge here, Ex is high rated, swear, voltage unlimited, hear? Do I make myself clear, peer?

No fear. None at all. How could he have fear and go where he’s gone, do what he’s done, drank until drunk on the berries, grapes and camel piss of native offerings, running high energy non-stop even in his dreamsleep. Not a peep or a beep of quiet in his veins. Just a ram and a rod through the circuits of living. Come along then, he’s drying off, the sun’s as hot as bagged piss and three cowered fishermen are slowly approaching, eyes in their hands.

They can’t quite understand…what it is about this man, but damn! if he doesn’t move, wantsta prove with his bear of a stare, his ape of a glare, that the ground where he stands is territory, his. No fizz.

What it is these men, fishers and river dwellers, fine, corruptible black fellas, are thinking? Well, the first one, with the long tribal scars running parallel on both cheeks, he’s wondering if the three of them could handle the one of him, with a grab of the flesh spear, a cut of those trophy balls, a steal of that motorcycle, and a story to pass like a cigar-rolled joint around the campfire of night. Hoo eeee, did you see the way that white man struggled? What a swing of a thing he swung. Ah, what the man doesn’t know is that the Commando has put away larger numbers of greedy grubbers. He’s a black belt karate chopper, a one-time semi-pro boxer, a jump-in-the-ring-with-a-kick-and-a-swing Thai fighter, a judo jouster. He’s brawled and crawled through the thickets of blistered knuckles and free swinging weapons, he’s killed, spilled and thrilled men of beastly natures and grizzly statures. He’s cracked skulls, split bones, punctured organs, dented muscles. He’s twisted noses until broken, bitten ears, thumbed out eyes, made Chiclets of teeth. No, man, you don’t want to mess with Ex. Not when there’s only three of you and all of one of him.

Second man, shorter, less ugly, more black, he’s thinking how he’d like to take a ride on that cycle. Whoop. To fly in the air over that river there, land on the other side, and ride ride ride. Yow! But hold on, Commando took his name because he’s in charge of his dare of a life, he’s the one who says Come on, and it’s rare when another man gets to sit behind him. No sir, when it comes to rides it’s rarely free. And Commando doesn’t like sticking his power in the assholes of men. Down the throats, at times, when he’s licked a man badly and throws it in for the final humiliation, but no way he does it when there’re so many Sheilas just dying for a ride–on his great stallion of a machine and his great stallion of a tool. The power under the crotch gives power into the crotch, it’s a direct feed off, an energizer. Charge him up, get it up, aim it in, explosion! Holy sweet mother of icons, there’s going to be so much boning going on here, so much drinking and swearing, rip roaring tearing, ass hanging staring, body joining pairing, it’s going to take the breath away from the reader, and next when you meet her, that one and your only, you’ll borrow a beater and go out and bleed her, goat bleater, strong seeder, a man for no reasons, just out there to treason upon all the no-trespassing places of this dung stack of a world.

The Commando saw through it a long time ago, how the world was built on garbage and turds, and with a little muscle and a lot of hustle you could become king of the hog pile, steal all the time it takes to live a full life and go out and buzz burn bull and bellow–the philosophy of the fellow. To crackerburst the moments, volcano the days, planet propel the years and, goddamn it, have a good time. Drop the cares of the squares, ex the worries and the woes, pick up some confidence and go, go, Joe. Only one life, one life, one life. A cry and a scream if it’s lived at a loss, if it’s misused and tossed, too planned, double-crossed. Not so with the Commando. O no. It’s the bike and the road, the aim: to explode; the care? Nowhere. Just that big globe world out there and he’s aiming to touch all corners, steer his way through the Pop Op Happenings, killing himself slowly with pleasure and taking every guts-grabbing opportunity that unfolds. So keep up, speed along, trip flip and skip through the one life worth living, the fully explored, high geared unfeared not scared life of the Commando. Sight…on!

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