I suck Satan's cock.

I suck Satan's cock almost daily. 

People come and ask me how to get what they want. I want to tell them work hard, be good, try hard, take chances, be lucky - but they've heard there is a quick way. So the sacred cow (that's me, by the way) gives the magic cock a suck and it squirts dark thoughts right into the shill gland at the back of my throat.

It talks to me about customer journey, about profiling, client messages, about social marketing and buzz and dynamic environments and telling stories, weaving interesting stories, selling stories.

No, I try and say, that isn't what story means, stories are for bedtime, fireside. You're thinking of stuffing truth in one of 12 acceptable delivery formats, doping and plumping with human interest and serving in snack size portions to desperate hacks. You've mistaken caring for a ticked list of boxes. People are better than believing who shouts the loudest and the most.

But the cock keeps shooting into my mouth, and those balls are nowhere near empty. Each spurt down my throat covers another piece of what is good and beautiful. I choke up around what is being done to what I thought I believed in. Where is my air?

I should pull off. Why don't I pull off? My bank manager and my landlord hold my head steady, stroke my throat and ease the darkness down.

I could bite. Why don't I bite? I bare my teeth ready and the people who want my help rub my back. They trust me. They asked for my help. If I bite, they will be taken too, taken and processed and ground up. They are good people. I can't bite.

I make a feed, I lock it down and fillet my rage into 140 chars or less. FUCK YOU I scream at the devil. My fingers flick frantically across the keyboard, as I trickle a puny back channel to counter the thick streams coming stronger in my mouth.

Put my sigil on them, says the devil's cock. Render unto Satan what is Satan's. They want to belong - let them belong to me. Brand the bastards who ask for it, lifting their quivering rumps in anticipation.

They want it. They don't know what they're asking. They're children begging for junk food. What do I say? I've got my mouth full myself.

One meal? In a good cause? One meal won't destroy the population and one refusal won't turn the congealed tide of trademarked slop.

It's hard to think with Satan's cock in your throat.

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Things I didn't have the nerve to publish.