Fukushima Young & Evil

Dead Planet LXXXI

Fukushima Young & Evil

K-Y’s lips pouted & quivered. He didn’t resist having his t-shirt taken off, then his pants, then his shorts and, lastly, falling back in bed, his jock strap….

K-Y put his arms behind his neck & closed he eyes—smoking a Japanese joint for the last time. He didn’t see me leaning down & kissing him—before he felt the bite. Then K-Y screamed.

I couldn’t stand it anymore—his getting off without me. It drove me insane with jealousy—I wanted to see him helpless & mine. Fuck self-fellatio—fuck doing “69” on himself all the time.

A wild, suppressed whine entered his voice—K-Y had never loved me. He only loved himself—he was such a young male whore & harlot. But it was the end…

The pill the doctor gave me—it was already kicking in, putting him to sleep. K-Y grew weak & more paralyzed in bed—his wide snake-eyes glazed over.

One last sneer—and the kid passed out.

I pressed the remote & buzzed them to come up. The transplant service clumped up the stairs—the elevators had stopped running months ago. Tokyo only had power for a couple of hours each day—all the TEMPCO nuke plants had blown.

Some said it was a Siemens SCADA & Stuxnet conspiracy—others said that it was to stop Japan from exporting enriched uranium to the Third World. Some said it was a HAARP earthquake & tsunami—nobody knew for sure. Night fell over Tokyo…

Most of Japan had been evacuated—the rest dead & depopulated. Except for Snake City & Red Light District—the yakuza kept crime going & power going. Underground fly-by-night cyborg surgeons & illegal transplant factories—kept producing the new Snake cyborgs. Assassins & the Mob—didn’t give up easy.

I let them in—some dirty, skanky Snake-Trix© gigolo boyz. It was just business to them—they kept the customers happy. As long as they paid in gold—they got whatever they wanted.

The most forbidden decadent delicacies—had opened up after the Fukushima Fuck-Up. Nuke Apocalypses—were good for business.

A flourishing Black Market in cyborg-sex exo-flesh trade had opened up in Kabukichō (歌舞伎町)—centered in the most notorious, sleaziest prostitution district in Radioactive Tokyo.

They did a quickie transplant—used genital glue to attach it to the new kid. A new Tokyo Model—without the narcissistic glitch. It was a perfect psychotronic klone of K-Y—same gymnast hardcore physique.

I wanted to keep the same yakuza dick though—I was addicted to the kid’s shocking male endowments. I couldn’t give it up—it was the main thing that K-Y was proud of. It’s what the thing that turned a ho-hum Japanese hustler—into a Prince Charming stud that was all mine.

I know it sounds sick & dreadful—please don’t tell anybody. I’m ashamed enough—of everything I’ve done with my miserable life. But the isotope half-life of my deadly encroaching radioactive sickness—it’ll last hundreds of years compared with my stupid minor few years of crummy existence left. Might as well enjoy myself…

It was a perfect fit—the stem-cell cryogenic blowjob machine did its trick. The genetic glue was fast & neat—the new kid was fresh outta the vats. I fondled & cooed at the kid’s exquisite transplanted prick—I hoped it liked its new genealogical home down there.

The new reverse-bioengineering technology—was 100 times cleaner & more efficient than the old-fashioned transplant surgery dayz. No blood, no mess, no anti-rejection drugs—just mainline big vein plumbing, man. It was like plug & play…

The memory-chip male transplant—had already programmed itself to its new host-thug physique. I felt him up & could feel K-Y’s magnificent thug thing stir between my trembling fingertips.

It was as if K-Y had been resurrected from his depraved former demimonde existence—into this new delinquent deliquescent hoodlum Delmonico steak-hood. So much for nostalgia—I just picked up from where we’d left off. Without the baggage—and issues…

They put the old K-Y kid in a body-bag—for the recycle chamber back in the yakuza lab. I marveled at my new Snake-Trix© kept android boy—all fresh & new from the illegal underground genetics factory. Much more sexy & streamlined—than the previous model.

The boyz in white lab coats smiled—pleased to see me satisfied with my new Fukushima “Nuke Boy” loverboy. They turned out the lights—and showed me how the new K-Y glowed in the dark—plus his groin had a built-in ninja Geiger-meter with a digital counter to check out how hot he got.

I popped a couple of Iodine pills—to counteract the radioactive sickness & nausea I was getting lately. Tokyo was a Ghost City now—nothing but us Fukushima Zombie Dead left. Us klone fags & our replicant kept boyz—we weren’t fucking around in what was left of one of the most cosmopolitan & sophisticated capitols of the planet.

The infamous Yakuza Mob, of course—they’d already kloned themselves to the dark side. They’re commandeered all the best genetic scientists—and even kidnapped some of the best Reptile thug intelligentsia into their own Ninja Alternative 3.

The Japanese Yakuza weren’t dumb—they had their own plan for survival & migration of a certain percentage of the criminal underworld—the cream of the crop of Earth’s best crime & corruption mafia—to secret underground bunkers beneath Tokyo to avoid the future Pole Shift & other Cataclysms on Earth.

I gave the Snake-Trix© delivery boyz a big tip—for all I knew they were already klones themselves. Soon I was in bed with my new jaded K-Y klone—glomming onto the yakuza youth’s born-again Bad Biology. Or maybe I should say—the kid’s new born-again Other.

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