LITMIR.BIZ

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      Dimitri Sciatscu was never seen or heard from in the United States of America again. Rumor has it he became a gymnastics instructor in his native village of Timisobiurest and left for a holiday resort in southeastern Bulgaria every time a local boxing match was announced.

      Wallace Beerbauer, head of security at The Banana Ballroom, was issued strict orders to shoot Viddi on sight should he ever show his face within a ten-block radius of the establishment.

      Thus ended the only match in boxing history where a fighter was disqualified for attempting to strangle his own trainer in the middle of the ring with a championship belt that has yet to be claimed by anyone in the muddled world of leather and glory.

      A Flood of Mexican Porn Star Tits

      Justin Porter

      When Dad paid for art school, they never said anything about career possibilities. Not for a fine arts degree at least. Although, if they had, I’m sure it wouldn’t have included drawing a giant Mexican force-feeding his giant cock to a drawing of a chick with giant tits.

      Maybe I should explain.

      I had to run away to Mexico. Drug charge, too pretty for jail, blah, blah. I’m far from my father’s hard-knocks upbringing.

      “I brought myself up with these two hands. I fought tooth and fucking nail, every day, for the shit you take for granted!”

      Whatever, Dad. It all amounts to having to draw cartoon rape and giant cock. For pesos no less.

      It sucks.

      Well, not for me directly, but for this one drawing I’m doing? Well, all I can say is I hope this girl’s colon is double-jointed.

      When I got caught with some drugs—to be specific: two hundred vics, 150 percs, a shitload of reds, and a handful of whites (or at least what looked like whites), half kilo of smack, bundled and ready to go, and a half pound of weed—I got caught with a dealer friend of mine’s entire inventory. Noah’s ark for the drug addict. I know it sounds unbelievable, but it’s actually pretty simple.

      “Hey, can I leave this here for a couple days?”

      “Sure, man.”

      Just like that, I’m fucked. Well, there might be more to it than that, but you get the picture.

      So now I’m in Mexico City. Drawing giant Mexican cock. Which is great. Hey, fuck you. At least I’m making money off my artisticness, or something.

      Now, I don’t know what the stereotype is for the great people of Mexico. The Irish and the Asians are supposed to be tiny. Black people are rumored to be huge—it’s part of the reason I fled to Mexico. In jail I’m sure I would have ended life as a condom.

      So, what’s the common misconception? Because most of the Mexican women I’ve seen are pretty small. If all the guys down here are walking around with that shit hanging between their legs, then I just feel bad.

      Inadequate, but bad.

      So I got arrested, somebody was looking for the drug dealer, but they found me. It didn’t help my case that I had looked in the bag, and by looked I mean rifled through it and taken two of fucking everything. What a great weekend. I mean, I don’t remember shit, but it must have been great.

      I threw a huge party. I invited everybody. I parceled out the contents of the bag.

      I did not, however, invite la policia. Somebody else must have.

      “No, Officer, I am not a drug ‘dealer.’ I gave all those drugs away for free! They weren’t even mine!”

      Nope. Nope, I’m drawing Mexican cock and violent rape cartoons and living in Mexico City.

      When I got down here, I had no prospects. So with that and a pocket of money (courtesy of Dad), I ended up in a bar.

      Crossing the border wasn’t a problem. My court date wasn’t for a few months and Dad’s attorney convinced everyone I wasn’t a flight risk. He was there when Dad sent me off. In fact we both got envelopes. His was fatter by far, and he echoed my father’s sentiments with a grunt of assent.

      “I don’t ever want to see you again, you hear?” Dad held my eyes while the lawyer grunted and looked into his envelope. Asshole.

      “Okay, Dad,” I said, and my heart was in it. I mean, Dad never wanted to see me again. I’d been praying for that most of my life. Also, we both know what prison would be like, better heartbreak than ass-rape.

      So this was a good thing. Let’s just hope ass-fucking isn’t a national sport in Mexico the way I heard it was in jail. Word to the wise—if you’re ever thinking about doing something that could land you in prison? Watch Oz…seriously, ’cause if that shit’s even half true, fuck that. Oz is about the worst concept on earth. It’s a soap opera for dudes…Wait, I’m not finished…mostly about dudes, and heavily involving penetration of either meat or knife variety.

      Either way, no, thanks.

      So I got in the car and did what I was told to do. I drove and never looked back.

      Hey, you know what the hardest part of drawing a big dick is? Not the head itself, that’s easy—it’s the fucking veins. They’re a pain in the ass. You need them to wrap correctly and make it look cylindrical. I fuck up more veins on dicks than anything else. A pussy is east to draw—it’s either a vertical line with a bunch of short strokes for hair, or it’s a vertical oval filled with something. Easy. Give me pussy any day over dick. Even as an artist I’m straight.

      Dammit, I got off track again. Any time you catch me talking about dick instead of telling the story, just remind me. Occupational hazard and all.

      So I drove until I got about halfway there, which took about a week. I would have been quicker, but the Percocet I was popping to combat the anxiety and the homesickness made it hard to drive. In between the puffs of sluggish thought, I remembered something about switching cars, because of something…It came to me almost a day too late that Dad was planning on reporting his car stolen. Fuck. So I switched the car and used the money Dad gave me for the purpose of buying another. But, fucked if I am, I spent a little of that money on good drugs, so the car I could afford was a little shittier than the one Dad probably intended.

      So me and my vintage—fuck you, it’s not just another word for old—VW Bug made it across the border in one piece. The first thing I noticed? Mexico is fucking hot, and ugly, and seriously? The square whores I could do without. Anyhow, I ain’t writing a travelogue or review and if this is whetting your appetite to come here? All I can say is, leave your scruples, sense of personal hygiene in your other pair of pants and get your shots.

      I found my way into a bar, got a beer, and sat down. Now what the fuck was I gonna do?

      “Those’re great veins, mang.”

      “Thanks, mang. And Eduardo? Don’t talk like a stupid Mexican, okay?”

      I was sitting at my desk working on a panel for yet another comic book—Los Vaqueros con Los Chorizos Largos, or something like that. What it amounted to was drawing another big cock in a long line of big cocks. The difference here was that it was the only thing in the panel. I had to pay close attention to what it looked like, so I was shading in the veins.

      Eduardo was a colorist. He was responsible for the lovely flesh tone with purple tints that would soon fully define my cock. The one I was drawing, that is. Eduardo went to a good university here, and while he is a Mexican coloring pictures of dicks, he’s certainly not dumb.

      “Okay, carnal. Damn ese’ pardong thee fock outta me ang sheet.”

      I sighed and went back to shading veins.

      That first day I got here, I was drinking in the bar, which happens to be around the corner. I still go there. Anyhow, I was drinking. After the third beer, I was a little drunk (painkillers—fuck you, I’m not a lightweight) and doodling on the

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