The pervitin boys are good to screw up the ass. They don’t eat much, you see, so no nasty surprises. Their bodies are slight, their faces gaunt. Gaping white eyes and tight little holes, pink pussies, virgin guts. Pristine boys in dirty uniforms. And they won’t raise a complaint. They moan in staccatos. What good are their bodies but to be used and abused? It’s their duty to serve. Bend them over a table, fuck them up against a wall, push their faces into filth, throw them, kick them, beat them. Breach and pierce and split and rip. They don’t mind. Man sized killing machines. Industrial, electrified men. Make them bleed (I fucked one once until his bowels came loose and the good lieutenant didn’t even notice). Put on the right uniform, order them down on their knees, kiss my boots, present that ass. And the bitch obeys and doesn’t suspect a thing. Aren’t they innocent, those precious young men? Germany’s finest. Noble features, bright eyes, light hair, tan lines, peach asses and pink hairy holes. If only I could destroy them. Fuck them to death. But they twitch like insects in their death throes, only to get back up again, uncurling the shiny chitin limbs. There is liquid steel in their veins. Vacant stares from crystalline eyes and venomous drool dripping from bared fangs. And I’m the one left feeling dead, oozing my last spoon of spunk and falling asleep slumped over their backs. You, there, yes you, with the locks. Names are ephemeral. My office, now. Kneel. Revere thine superior. Praise order. Pray to authority. I shove three magic pills down his throat and make him down them with rum and the poor boy is all mine and I have him. Sore cock up his arse and down his throat, in that order, make him choke, fill him, spoil him, soil him, he won’t mind. And once you have served me well go back to your comrades. Cut your hair according to regulations and each morning shave your face and trim your nails and wipe that ass clean, outside and inside, scrape out the cum, pretty boy, before it festers. Ah, those good men, so many to choose from, an endless supply. Until they run out of boys to make into men or until one day one of those yank boys in their terrific planes drops a bomb right down on me while I’m balls deep in some lad and we both blow up into one majestic cloud of meat and bones and shit and piss and cum. And they’ll have to scrape us from the walls and put us in a bag and bury it in a grave that says on it: two unknown German soldiers.

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