Pierre Dreams of Gooning

let the gooning commence

Pierre wasn’t technically the fattest person in Oxnard, but he was the fattest person most of Oxnard’s residents had ever seen. He was proud of his giant frame and was determined to reach seven hundred pounds before summer ended.

He could hear his mother in the kitchen making turkey burgers, and he wanted to scream at her. The vile smell made him nauseous. He was convinced turkey burgers were the reason his father divorced her ratchet ass. He had half a mind to throw away the remaining ground turkey meat, but because that never worked, he’d just have to insult her instead.

"Pierre, you need to get over to Grandpa's today," she said.

“Oh hell no,” he said. “I’m going to Casey’s kickback because everyone is expecting me to do a backflip.”

"You're there every dang day. I'm not asking you to get a job or nothing; just go visit your grandpa and bring him food. He forgets to eat, you know. I'll give you the money; just go get the food and bring it to him."

"Okay, whatever, but I'm taking an Uber."

“He only lives not three blocks away. Go take a walk.”

“I’m not walking in the McDonalds drive-thru. They always try to put their authority on me and say it’s not happening.”

"Whatever, boy, just do it; here's the money."

She handed him thirty dollars. He called an Uber and waited for Omar to show up.

Omar pulled up, driving an old Toyota Corolla. Pierre got in the snug back seat. His heart skipped a bit when he saw that Omar was one of the hottest guys he'd ever seen. Pierre wanted to twerk for him.

“How’s it going?” asked Omar as he pulled out of the driveway.

“You’re like a brown Timothee Chalamet,” said Pierre.

"Oh, I don't know who that is. So, two stops, yeah? First, McDonalds?"

“Can you play some Morning Masume?”

“I don’t know what that is,” said Omar.

“It’s a Japanese idol group.”

“Oh, I don’t have Bluetooth, sorry.”

“I’m going to play it anyways, it just would have been better with car speakers, but my phone is pretty loud, listen.”

Pierre turned on the song "Love Machine," and as soon as it got to the upbeat part, he started twerking in the back seat. The entire car started shaking.

"Stop that! You trying to kill us, man?"

“No, I’m transferring energy throughout my body because I’m doing a backflip at Casey’s kickback later today.”

“You’re going to destroy my car, man.”

"No, I'm just transferring energy. If I stop eating or twerking, I lose my chakra. Just drive fast, and your car will be fine."

The song was still playing when they got to the drive-thru. The employee asked for the order, but nobody could hear the voice over the music.

“Can you please turn it down?” asked Omar. “They’re trying to take the order.”

“No, I can’t,” said Pierre.

"Well, tell them what you want, man," said Omar.

"I'm not going to scream over the music. Tell them I'm going to need five double hamburgers with extra mayonnaise and pickles, a twenty-piece McNuggets with mayonnaise on top, a large Coke with light ice, an order of large fries, and a small fry."

Omar relayed the order.

When they reached the pickup window, Pierre immediately started eating his first double hamburger.

“No eating in the car, please,” said Omar.

“I have to eat it right away.”

“Please don’t, I try to keep this car clean.”

"When I eat hamburgers, the first one I always mush into a ball shape and shove it down my throat. I always start choking, but when the mayonnaise mixes with my spit, it helps the big ball slide down my throat. It feels really weird. I only do it for the first hamburger."

“Please don’t do that in my car.”

“I already did it.”

"Well, bro, if you're going to eat in my car, at least give me a burger then."

“No way.”

"Come on, you have five; give me just one."

"Fat chance," said Pierre. "If you wanted a burger, you should have ordered one."

"I'm going to report this, you know, and I'm going to leave you a one-star rating."

"It's my mom's account; leave her a zero-star rating. She's a dumb ratchet bitch making turkey burgers."

Pierre finished all the food and left the bag in Omar’s back seat.

“Punk ass bitch,” said Omar before pulling away.

Pierre twerked in the direction of Omar’s car while on his grandfather’s driveway. Once Omar had turned the corner, Pierre let himself inside.

“Grandpa, do you have any Adderall?”

His grandfather was sitting in his La-z-Boy watching television.

“Where’s my food?” he asked.

“Oh yeah, I ate it all,” said Pierre.

“You little bastard. I’m starving.”

“I need fuel to maximize my gooning later this evening. Do you have any Adderall?”

"Get out of my house, you little bastard."

Pierre went to the kitchen and started going through the fridge.

"You don't have any food, grandpa."

“Did I ever tell you about the time during the war I lost my leg bag?”

“Only a gazillion times. War stories are so boring. Who was hotter, Japanese soldiers or Korean soldiers?”

“What are you talking about?”

Pierre’s grandfather was nearly one hundred years old and had served in both World War Two and the Korean War.

"Like, when you were shooting at Asians, did you stop and think, 'damn, before I kill this guy, I really wish I could twerk for him'?"

"The prop blast from the jump was so, you know, the prop blast, I lost this famous leg bag everyone's talking about, just the shock of it of the prop blast, tore the damn thing right off."

“I know what you mean,” said Pierre.

The only thing his grandfather had was a jar of mayonnaise, so he took that out and sat on the couch. He took one of the big spoons to transfer the mayonnaise into his mouth.

“I think Korean soldiers were probably hotter than Japanese soldiers,” said Pierre.

“Stop talking nonsense,” said his grandfather.

“I’m going to do a backflip and then goon for over three hours; then I’m going to have some weird ass dreams and write them down the next day.”

“I want you out of my house,” said his grandfather.

Pierre looked through the medicine cabinet. His grandfather had over a million bottles of various pills. Pierre was tasked by his mother to supervise his grandfather’s medication intake, but it was so boring Pierre stopped over two years ago. His grandfather likely had no idea what he was taking.

"I'll probably just get Adderall at Casey's kickback. Hey, Grandpa, do you know if Ambien is one of the pills that killed Heath Ledger? I'm going to take it anyways because, after all the Adderall for my gooning, I'll need some help falling asleep."

Pierre grabbed the Ambien and a handful of other bottles he was sure he could sell to some guys at Casey's kickback.

"Alright, I'm taking the bariatric scooter, Grandpa," said Pierre.

“The hell you are!” said his grandfather.

Pierre ran out of the kitchen with liquid smooth grace and into the garage. By the time his grandfather reached the garage, the door was already wide open, and Pierre had escaped on the bariatric scooter.

It was five blocks to Casey's. He just hoped he could avoid Desire. She was a nasty bitch who was always trying to sit on his face and put her authority on him, and he wasn't having it. It wasn't his fault she was sexually aroused by him, just as it wasn’t his fault he was a much badder bitch than she was. Unfortunately, several dogs chased after him. He drove the scooter in circles, hoping to confuse the dogs or at least tire them out.

The back gate to Casey's yard was open, so Pierre drove on through. They were listening to some shitty local punk or hardcore music they were always listening to. Pierre couldn't stand it. It was boring and cringe, and only ugly people went to those awful shows. Nearly every one of Pierre's acquaintances was somehow involved in this tat.

“Boy, are you fat,” said Eric.

Eric was a tiny little rat-looking bastard.

“I look bigger than usual because I’m cum stacking,” said Pierre.

“Nah, you’re just fat,” said Eric.

“I was going to sell you some Percocet, but I ‘spose I ain't gonna anymore.”

“The hell I want Percocet for?”

"Maybe it'll make baddies actually want you for once like they want me, cheese-face bitch."

"Yo, if it ain't my main man, Pierre," said Casey, leaning down to give Pierre a fist bump.

Casey was as tall as Pierre was fat. He was tall, thin, and white and used to be popular in school and well-liked by all his teachers until he started doing meth and became a retard. Now Casey was popular with all the other locals, and he'd definitely buy some Percocet from Pierre.

"I don't know if we can let you do a backflip today. Sorry, bud, it's a bit packed back here."

"Well, I've been cum stacking. Do you at least have a place for me to do some large-scale gooning tonight?"

“Are you going to livestream it?” asked Casey.

"Oh, for sure I'm going to livestream it."

"Yeah, I guess you could use the living room. My dad's likely to be passed out by nine. Even if he's still in there, don't worry about waking him up; just do what you gotta do."

Pierre went through the various coolers to get a drink, but almost all they had was booze. He didn't drink booze because it was detrimental to gooning. He only drank things that gave him fuel, like energy drinks or soda. He wanted a Coke, but those retards only had RC Cola and some horrific cream soda. He asked Casey who was in charge of bringing the sodas so he could have a talk with them.

Among the ugly people, he spotted the ugliest and most cringe of them all, some hideous little buttmuncher named David Low. Most people called him D. Low, but Pierre called him an ugly little worm-sucking idiot. Apparently, he wrote books nobody gave a shit about, and it was so embarrassing. Even more embarrassing was how he always went around begging people to subscribe to his Substack. Nobody knew or cared what a Substack was. To make matters worse, he was always wearing something stupid like an expensive ass Gucci jacket, trying to hide the fact he was a hideous troll with his fancy clothing that looked terrible on him and made him look like some kind of carnival freakshow attraction. It's like, hello bitch we know you’re from Oxnard, you’re not fooling anyone.

Pierre traded some morphine for Adderall and meth. He crushed up the meth and Adderall and snorted eight lines of it before downing a little of RC Cola.

Casey's dad was lying on the couch watching some kind of presidential conference on TV. The music stopped, and the TV was so goddamn loud everyone outside was able to hear it. Pierre looked inside to see what was going on at the conference.

President Trump was answering questions.

"It's a great deal, isn't that what they said?" said Trump, his face confirming he approved. "I always tell them what a great deal it was, and that one guy, you know, the Hindu guy, great guy, terrific guy, he told me he didn't even know there could be a deal that good. Isn't that great?"

At that point, Trump looked straight at the camera, almost as if looking into Casey’s backyard at those in attendance.

“Look at him, Little Gay David. What a loser.”

Everyone knew Trump was talking about David Low at Casey’s kickback. Everyone in attendance at Trump's conference started cheering and screaming approval.

“That’s what he is, that’s what I call him,” continued Trump. “I’ve never seen a bigger loser. You hear about these little books he’s writing? Nobody reads them. It’s really pathetic.”

Everyone in attendance at Casey’s kickback started pointing fingers and laughing at David.

After Pierre had gotten enough fuel in him for his gooning, he went inside and got the equipment set up for streaming. Casey’s dad was indeed passed out on the couch. Pierre twerked over Casey’s dad’s head for about twenty minutes before getting tired.

Pierre stripped naked and went to the fridge. He saw a full jar of mayonnaise. He used his hand as a scoop to have about five or eight mouthfuls. The rest of the mayonnaise he rubbed over the entirety of his body. After his hair was completely slicked back with mayo and it covered the length of his body, he got out the Saran wrap and wrapped it over the entirety of his massive body, only leaving holes for his mouth, his weenie, and his hands.

The interesting part was to see whether all the different pills he'd been taking for his cum stacking would pay off or not. After gooning, he'd film a short review of the meds he purchased.

To maximize the experience, he needed multiple screens going for sensory overload. He had three cell phones; one was used to play J-POP music videos, one for videos about making homemade mayonnaise, and another for the filthiest hentai in the world. He also used mayonnaise for lubricant.

His goal was to last three and a half hours before shooting his load. The closest he'd ever gotten before that was ninety minutes. He loved edging, but at the ninety-minute mark, he wore himself out.

Before he started touching himself, he shotgunned a large can of Monster Energy. He took a second can, chugged half, and let the rest fill in the small spaces between his skin and the Saran wrap. He was so sticky and gross and loved how he felt.

Let the gooning begin!!

He got to five minutes before he felt his load was about to shoot. Good, he thought, let this be the edging to end all edging. He edged for four hours before shooting his load all over Casey’s dad’s television set.

He had exerted so much energy he decided he’d leave the review for tomorrow. It was time to dream. Dreaming was a crucial part of the whole gooning process. Pierre decided to keep a dream journal because he had read an article in which Barack Obama said he had kept one and that Barack Obama was literally the hottest guy alive.

Pierre went to sleep.

He woke up and tried to reach his dream journal. The mayonnaise and Monster Energy had crystalized and made movement stiff and awkward. He understood that to break out of the Saran wrap, he'd have to power up at least five times harder than ever. He started channeling his chakra and screamed once the energy was bursting forth from his pores. He broke out of the hardened wrap and felt like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon.

He wrote down his dream: Chinese people and black people switch places for a day.

He got on his scooter to make the trek back home. The beating sun made the hardened mayonnaise peel, making his skin feel crusty. The dang thing wasn't going as fast as he'd like it to go. It probably needed to refuel just like he did after a night of gooning. As he passed by several blocks, he noticed an unusual number of dogs outside without leashes. They barked as he passed by. Some dogs even nipped at his legs.

“Fuck off!” he yelled.

He popped open a can of Monster for a quick pick-me-up. He hated the idea of wasting precious fuel, but the dogs were right on his tail. He took a full can, threw it as hard as he could, and lobbed it right between a German Shepherd’s eyes. The dog went cuckoo and abandoned the chase to other dogs.

Dogs began to run in from all sides. His scooter was an island in the middle of a wild sea of dogs. They came crashing in from all directions. They lunged at him; others caught onto his sleeves and hung on, letting the scooter pull them forward. He felt pieces of fabric being torn off his massive body by these stupid animals. He willed his scooter to go as fast as possible. He felt the wheels crushing the bones of a small runt dog that fell under his wheels. One vicious mutt wrapped its jaw around his left arm. He used his right hand to poke the dog in the eyes.

Pierre opened the door to his house, and his mom stood slackjawed like some kind of retard.

“What the hell happened to your clothes, boy?”

“I had to fight off a million dogs because you won’t pick me up.”

“Dogs did this?”

He stood stark naked, as nude as the day he was born.

“They weren’t even on leashes. What good is Neighborhood Watch if they don’t even watch anything?”

As his mom yelled nonsense at him, it only dawned on him that he'd left his dream journal at Casey's.

Fortune fell into the ugly, grimy little hands of that devious, facially dubious rat bastard David Low. While everyone else at the kickback fell asleep due to having drunk and enjoyed their lives, his shifty little eyes went to and fro, looking for an opportunity. Being a talentless hack, he was unwilling to put in the work to produce art that would leave a legacy. He was always looking for an easy solution.

He popped a pill that Pierre had sold him, telling him it was ecstasy, but in reality, it was finasteride. Everyone was passed out, both inside or outside. Inside near Casey's passed-out dad was a giant crater on the couch and a puddle of mayonnaise and cum all over the place. David was about to gag, but the dream journal caught his attention.

He looked through it. The first couple of pages contained one word or names or non sequiturs, such as Barack Obama, better tasting pizza, pizza, but tacos, Michelle Obama, and worms are getting smarter.

David was ready to throw the thing in the trash until he came to the page that said: Chinese people and black people switch places for a day.

That night, believing he was under the effects of ecstasy, David began writing a manuscript. For forty-eight hours, he did not sleep or eat. He wrote down 88.000 words and submitted the manuscript to the first agent on Query Tracker.

The agent’s submission page stated that response time was between eight to twelve weeks, but David heard back within only three days. Pierre’s dream journal had helped David, the hapless loser, write a New York Times bestseller.

David signed a four-book deal with a major publisher and was given a 200,000-dollar advance. Within a week, he blew all of it on coke and a flight to Turkey for a penis enlargement surgery.

Being the talentless hack that he was, he was utterly incapable of coming up with another idea. The publishers were growing impatient, and he'd run out of coke. Furthermore, the Turkish surgeons were just as big of frauds as he was, leaving him with a penis that was filled with cement and could never revert back to a flaccid state.

David needed Pierre and his dreams, or he'd never complete his next novel.

Pierre, having had his clothes torn off him the past five times he scooted home by vicious dogs, was forced to pour rat poison on the lawn of every house in north Oxnard. His mom could no longer afford new shirts and shorts for him, and having reached 745 pounds, it was getting increasingly difficult to find clothes in his size.

It was almost midnight by the time he got home, and his scooter was out of juice. He sat down on the couch and was ready to doze off. A full five minutes passed before he realized someone was sitting next to him on the sofa.

"Hey, aren't you that little gay loser David Low?" he asked.

David Low was unresponsive. He just stared forward, gormless and deformed.

“What the hell is he doing here?” he yelled to his mom in the kitchen.

"Oh, I felt bad for him. I almost hit him with the car; he was wandering around the neighborhood like some vagabond. I took a look at his face and figured he was one of those mute mongoloids, but he said your name. I offered him to wait inside until you got back. I was just making him some Hamburger Helper."

“No, stop making him Hamburger Helper.”

“But why, look at the poor state of him?”

"I need the Hamburger Helper for my YouTube channel. If you value your life, you'll stop making it this instance."

“Then what should I make him, dear?”

“I don’t give a damn! Silly ass bitch. Give him a goddamn saltine cracker.”

Pierre’s mother gave D. Low a saltine cracker. David started choking on it.

"Go to bed, Mother; I'm going to talk to this deviant."

David sat on the couch, shaking and shivering like a little freak.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” asked Pierre.

“I’ve got AIDS,” he said.

“I didn’t even know ugly people could get AIDS,” said Pierre.

“I need your help.”

“You’re not getting another saltine cracker.”

“No, not that, your dream journal.”

“What about it?”

“I need it. The only success I’ve ever found was writing a book inspired by one of your dreams. You’re my muse. I can’t write without you.”

"Sounds retarded; that's gonna be a hell nah from me dawg."

“I’ll do anything.”

“Will you stop having AIDS?”

“I have no health insurance and no money. If you help me, perhaps I can pay for treatment.”

"Tell you what, I'm about to film myself gooning; I was thinking about starting a secondary reacts channel. Film yourself reacting to my gooning, and I'll consider letting you look at my dream journal."

Pierre filled up an entire bathtub with mayonnaise. He set up an intravenous bag filled with Monster Energy to flow directly into his bloodstream. He put five sleeves' worth of saltine crackers inside the tub so that while gooning, he could occasionally put his head under the mayonnaise lake and emerge with crackers in his mouth. His goal was to goon without the use of his hands. He was going to shoot his load using only the power of his mind.

While filming his reaction, David vomited within seconds. Pierre was certain the comments on the video would let him know what a lackluster reactionTuber David was.

Five hours later, Pierre was finished. He let David know that if he cleaned up the bathtub and didn't get any AIDS on it, then he could take a peek at the dream journal.

David turned to the latest page of the journal, unable to get the smell of mayonnaise out of his deformed nose. It read: What if you could read your own mind?

David was taken aback. He had never considered something so dark before. He immediately started thinking about all the possibilities and implications of what this meant, but then he was keenly aware that he was thinking about these possibilities and implications. In the past, when he'd have a thought, he accepted it for what it was, but now he understood he had thoughts, and he was really thinking about them. Only a matter of seconds had passed since reading Pierre's journal, but he understood he was reading his own mind.

He saw a hammer on the countertop and thought, what would it be like to bash an old woman’s head in with that? NO! Stop it! Why would I think something so awful? I can’t believe I just thought that. It’s not my fault. I don’t control where my thoughts come from.

David wanted to think about something happy, like puppies frolicking in a park or a herd of elephants splashing about, but all he could think about were twisted and perverse things. He didn't want this power. He thought about how deep down he knew his books were terrible but worse than that, they were dreadfully dull.

He called out for help. He desperately wanted some kind of substance to dull his senses, but the awareness that he had said senses was driving him mad.

“I can read my own mind!” he said.

He ran out into the streets yelling, ‘I can read my own mind! I have the power! I know what I’m thinking!”

He knocked on doors throughout the neighborhood, ravenous.

“I can read my own mind!”

He ran down the streets, not even bothering to step over the corpses of dogs littering the neighborhood. He thought about how sad it was that he had been such a bad son to his mother for all of his adult life, and he hated that he was aware that he had such thoughts.

He thought about how he'd reached an age where he wasn't open to accepting new ideas and, didn't want kids and, was basically an antinatalist, and had no hope for the future and the fact that he was the one who had produced such thoughts, and he was thinking it, and he knew he was thinking it and could think about thinking it was pretty scary, he thought.

Meanwhile, Pierre decided he needed a break. He had edged as far as possible and wanted to hibernate. He plopped himself down on his couch, but something happened. Small orifices began to open up all along his body. They didn’t hurt any, but the fact that they were there at all was a bit concerning.

Once there were over a dozen orifices along his massive figure, they began to secrete a white, silky substance. The substances connected to one another covered his body and hardened.

During all of this, he did not experience fear. Though he did not know how it was happening, he knew what was happening. While training his body to edge like nobody else ever had before and putting a constant supply of fuel into his engine, he was preparing his cells for this moment. No human being before him had ever so masterly perfected the science of controlling and manipulating their own genetic makeup.

Sealed inside his cocoon, his cells were rearranging themselves into new shapes. In a way, each cell was in the process of its own individual gooning.

A month passed with Pierre inside the chrysalis. In that time, David Low had been murdered by Albanians for the fifteen dollars he owed them. Casey, Eric, and at least twenty others who knew Pierre had set up a vigil around the cocoon, awaiting the revelation that would emerge from it. Some doubted anything would happen in their lifetime. Some claimed that just being near the thing was enough to give them spiritual epiphanies.

Around midnight, when some of Oxnard's citizens in Pierre's circle were ready to call it a night, the first crack along the hard cocoon shell appeared. Everyone who had been engaged in conversation stopped and waited.

More cracks emerged along the chrysalis. Then, a hand emerged, followed by another. They were milky white and beautiful. The hands gracefully pulled the rest of the body out of the chrysalis.

Before his friends and peers stood Pierre, but not Pierre, as they remembered. He was slender and perfect, carved by Michelangelo himself. He was fully nude. Thanks to his power of cell rearrangement, Pierre forced his new, improved body to emerge from the cocoon, looking like a perfect mixture of Timothee Chalamet and Barack Obama. He was the most beautiful thing they had ever seen. Beyond that, he was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He decided he would never wear clothes because to hide such a phenomenal, angelic body would be against the will of God.

“I am Pierre,” he said to the adoring crowd. “Look upon me and despair.”