Human #8675309 had been selected in the 4^th year of life as a potential shell. The corpus for the corporation. His mother, an alpha+ Petty Boujee, Ja'mie Von Fistenberger, entertained 87 million humans as they strained on toilets and sulked in offices as one of the most successful Instagram models.

She made a perfectly cromulent Petty fortune from her keen eye for cross-promotion. She would henna tattoo parts of her white body monthly with logos of whichever sponsor was the highest bidder. Feet by Dr. Scholl's Corn Remover, tramp stamp by Colon Blow Tea, arms by Chef Boy-ar-dee cans (“Food for Kids, Workout Weights for Moms^TM ”), lips by Maybeline (♫ “Maybe she's born with it, maybe its two pounds of liquid cement injected weekly!^TM”♫), brows by Tweezers, a bow above her belly button with the logo and motto for CoolSculpting, (“Freeze your Fat away!^TM”). She was a walking, posing billboard that was stripped monthly and shellacked with new advertisements.

Ja'mie's breakthrough sprung from a string of athlete lovers, mostly soccer stars and NASCAR drivers who left their soiled jerseys crumbled up in the corner of her room. Dizzy from the sweaty all-night fuck-fests, she'd invariably trip over the patch-covered clothes on her way to the bathroom. During her 412^th such stumble, her blonde head struck genius as well as the marble floor. Oddly enough, it was an ad for Pennzoil Quik Lube which lodged between her pinky toe and her ring toe (sponsored by Zales).

After flipping her blonde hair hither and yon to inspect for cranial damage, she shouted “Eureka!”

Two toned thighs roused under her 50,000-thread-count sheets, hooked into hips, orange abs and topped with straw hair. Her stud du nuit smiled from her flamingo-down pillows. She shooed him to sleep and rushed to awaken her agent.

Within a day, she was hawking hunks of her body in online auction blocks, giddy at the soaring bids.

“$85,000 for a thigh!”

“$125,000 for the forehead!”

“$62,000 for the coccyx!”

“$10,000 for any pound of flesh!”

SOLD!

#8675309`s father was Ja'mie's 786^th athletic star, Tyler Meeks, who won her by promising that he'd transition from soccer star to her brand manager. Ja'mie had pioneered the idea, retained sole ownership of her body and its brand identity and had the followers that companies chased after. But Tyler stood 6-inches taller, spoke with a voice an octave lower and didn't have breasts that he warned would outshine the brilliance of her ideas.

“Don't worry, I’ll take care of everything.” He cooed, coddling her.

Ja'mie, brainwashed since infancy to want a man on whom to shirk responsibility, acquiesced. They sealed their business and relationship deals on the same day. First in a boardroom signing and then in a lavish wedding where he was carried in by a caravan of fourteen elephants as she floated down from a hot air balloon. As her balloon burst with 65,000 cubic feet of heat to raise her over the vineyard, she had a nagging sensation that she was forfeiting power and control. But, she reminded herself that Tyler's penis length was in the 85^th percentile of her lovers, girth in the 91^st percentile and tongue oscillatory power in the 99^th percentile. On top of that, he made her laugh daily.

#8675309 was a born product promoter. Ja'mie secured a million dollar deal with Google 4D vortex to live-stream his birth. Over 124 million viewers tuned in from dilation to crowning to cord cutting. And only 17% were fetishists! A fact that Google could identify by the vigorous twitching of at least one hand.

Vaseline sponsored her vaginal opening. Along with being smeared vigorously every ten minutes, the company had paid to laser all hair above her birth canal’s opening and tattooed it with that month's slogan: “Vaseline helps skin STREEETCH.^TM ”

Office Max flashed from the scissors that cut his umbilical cord and Hefty emblazoned the trash bag where her doctor dunked her placenta, which she later fished out off-camera and sold to a Serbian psychiatrist who paired it with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.

But Gatorade demanded its money back for breach of contract when she passed out from blood loss long before she could take her postpartum swig of the refreshing, thirst quencher. The company had even developed a Gatorade for Her, which they were to launch that day. It was just Arctic Freeze dyed red, placed in a curvier bottle and labeled “Crimson Flow.^TM ”

The original storyboards had her husband and his former soccer teammates baptize mother and baby with a ceremonial Gatorade shower. But the doctors nixed this for fear of infection. After two months of litigation, Ja'mie, LLC settled for only half the money since all parties agreed the Gatorade bottle was clearly visible for the ten minutes from when she started convulsing and remained in frame until the beginning of her blood transfusion, when the livestream was finally cut. Analytics showed that this near death did bring a 20% uptick of viewers who more intensely stared at the screen as she flailed beneath the branded bottle.

The couple had offers to name their son after their pick of luxury brands. Bentley, Versace, Gucci, Cartier, Burberry all pawed at the newborn. But, both parents decided that this was one decision that was too sacred to sell. Instead, they decided to name him after the tie that bound their love.

#8675309, now named Brand-N, was put to work from day 1. He was wrapped in a velour slanket for his birth announcement/first cross-promotion. Tuffs of his blond hair puffed next to his mom's nipples, dechapped by Blistex. She cradled him in her “udderly amazing^TM” breastfeeding bra by Stacy “Fergie” Ferguson. He clutched a ruby binky by DMX, who had turned his fecundity of fifteen kids into funds with the world's first baby luxury jewelry line. And after his long first day of life and work, he laid his weary head to rest in a 24-carat gold crib and stared up at a mobile of Maseratis.

Ja'mie slogged through 13-hour days between hair, makeup, wardrobe, exercise and dieting to look naturally refreshed. On top of this, she had to manage the four nannies who took care of li'l Brand-N and oversee the household staff of 12 that kept her lawns cropped and hedges fluffed.

She was just too exhausted to notice her husband's absence. When she did, she didn't protest. His penile turgidity had shrunk to 17% of its former, throbbing glory. And she shuddered to smell the hot stank of his breath, a mixture of fried fish, stale tobacco, cocaine and acid reflux. She winced at his face, sallow and pale, as it sagged over her whenever he attempted penetration. His fingernails cracked and bled as he clawed at her breasts.

Yes, she was glad for his absence. Even after all her years of Insta-acting lessons at the Royal Tampa Academy for Dramatic Tricks, she couldn't bear to fake her way through another mach-4 orgasm to coronate him man enough for him to retreat his flimsy flesh and fall asleep.

She realized only after the bankruptcy orders rolled in that she should have questioned his truancy.

She soon discovered the fish smell was tempura that flowed freely at a Yakuza-operated casino where Tyler spent most nights and 90% of the fortune his wife and son sold their bodies amassing.

The cocaine came from crucifixes nestled between the cocktail waitresses' cleavages. They'd lay a line on their silicone-filled chest orbs for high rollers to snort. Each line connects directly to four square meters of rainforest destroyed in Colombia to farm the coca leaves. What rises with each sniff is a highly-inflated ego, a propensity for risk-taking and babbling, not only pontificatory speeches but also brand secrets. What couldn't rise was his penis from its flaccid stupor.

“Its just cards!”

“Its just chips!”

“Its just a night out with the boys!”

With each excuse, he'd ante up. Each chip he threw in represented $100,000 he'd lose at a clip. These small circles of blue, green, yellow and red were used to trick his feeble mind to not comprehend the enormity of his loss.

And his boys?

His boys were full grown human males who were financial assassins. They latched on to dim-witted millionaires and leeched them for all they were worth.

“Brosef Stalin, let's go to Vegas! We can take the 8pm hyperloop and gamble all night.”

“Lean on Brahski! Throw down all the way, we can't show 'em we're pussies.”

“Bro-Dognov, do just one more line offa dat hot mocha titty ball.”

The enablers poked Tyler's fragile ego until he hemorrhaged money. Within ten months, he had lost $102 million, their second home along Florida's Fools Gold Coast, his collection of antique ATVs and his Wu-Tang Clan platinum records, which he purchased from the estate of the late, great RZA. Much later, Tyler swore that his downfall came because he was cursed by the ghosts of RZA, GZA and Ol' Dirty Bastard who haunted him in a fever dream and reminded him of their prophetic warning: “Wu-Tang Clan ain't nuthing ta fuck wit!”

The twang of Tammy Wynette suckered Ja'mie to stand by her man as a swirling tornado of debt collectors sucked the remaining millions. Later, she wished she followed Loretta Lynn's sage advice and sent his squaw on the warpath that first night.

She only escaped his cracked claws through widowhood. In exchange for forgiving his final $10 million debt, Tyler agreed to let the casino permanently brand all four of his cheeks. The owners got him drunk on tequila and numbed his ass and face cheeks using cocaine's original analgesic purpose. Tyler smelled the burning long before he felt the pain. The scorching cattle prod seared his flesh with the crumbling Ionic columns iconic as the logo for Caligula's Palace.

The Yakuza henchmen left him at the sliding door of the hospital. After three days in the burn unit, he was released with strict instructions to slather his cheeks with antibiotic cream thrice daily to thwart infection. Instead, he teamed up with the only company he could find to sponsor his recovery, Pfuzier, a naturopathic drug company. He agreed to only use its patented tinctures of lavender oil, rose hips and St. Joan's wort to bring down the pusing and scarring.

Septicemia set in on the sixth day. On the seventh day, with a stomach full of Pfuzier brand-name probiotics, amoxosillyn & pen-o-sillyn, his body went into septic shock. His liver, lungs and kidneys shut down and he died.

Ja'mie looked positively radiant at the funeral in a beaded black mermaid flair dress by Jovani. Brand-N was dapper in a Cucinelli tux and won hearts worldwide with his well-choreographed JFK Jr. salute to his father's coffin. Thankfully, that black veil pulled her out of the red. Casket by The Container Store, wake fruit by Edible Arrangements, cremation by Zippo lighter fluid and bejeweled urn by PimpCupz.com. She was cash flow positive again!

Her bankruptcy lawyer represented Ja'mie pro boner. Sonny Vanderfeller was a beta-Haught Boujee who dreamed of finding significance for his life through the adoration of politics. He abandoned days lounging by the infinity pool and weekends on his yacht-flotilla to sacrifice a decade as Pinellas County Prosecutor. He desperately wanted to prove he was more than just the heir to the Summer's Eve vaginal douche fortune.

As part of the settlement, he offered to take Ja'mie, LLC off the market and cancel her debts if she agreed to stop commoditizing herself and became a stay-at-home mother of his twin sons, Aiden and Abetten. As a Haught Boujee, he couldn't stand her Petty ways and forced her to sign a contract to protect the privacy of his children.

Brand-N was husked off as some last season skort and spent most of his days either at boarding school, at throw-away camps or resigned to the darkness of his room's twirl-in closet in his new ocean-front mansion in Rat Mouth, Florida.

As a forgotten one, he skated through Rat Mouth's fourth most prestigious boarding & horsing school. Here he hobnobbed with the off-brand heirs. But these knockoffs knew how to thow a first-rate party. The heiress to the Hot Pockets fortune dished hot gossip with her golden knishes. His first necking was with the entrusted billionaire of the Red Vines fortune, while the Hydrox issue cowered and cried in the corner, all too aware that they had grown rich from Vessels gorging on their unhealthy treats. The always hilarious Zamboni grandson had a certain way of breaking the ice in any room. And from OshKosh, the Ba'Gosh twins brought the best drugs, tucked in one of their overalls' 18 pockets. But which one?! The guessing game was always such great party fun!

Brand-N longed for a more meaningful life than what sugar sticks and greasy meat & cheese pods could bring him. But his childhood had been so unremarkable!

Like all Boujees, he learned the skills of maid berating and the exacting science of social stratification. He knew how low he hung on the Boujee ladder, much lower than his stepbrothers. But, he found ingenious ways to suck up to the uppers and sabotage the downers. Oh the travails of being just another upper-lower-middle-Petty Boujee bound for a cushy, yet inconsequential, job and a minor trust fund.

When he entered his 16^th year, he embarked on the 3-month Boujee initiation into adulthood, which would forever change the trajectory of his life.

The Becoming of Age ceremony took only 4-hours of hacksaws, dissectors, retractors, scalpels and a cup and a half of his blood. But recovery filled the remaining months as these young Boujees pupated before emerging from their white gauze cocoons and shimmering as the newly transformed moths of humanity.

His mom took earnest interest at every doctor's appointment. Along with renowned facial constructor, Dr. Franff, his mom helped choose the nostril flair and acute cheekbone angle for his new face. Even his step-papaw offered encouraging words and the funds to get the full Jedlica, the most top-notch in male plastic surgery metamorphosis.

Before he left for the ceremony, his mom grabbed his hand in a moment of surprise intimacy.

“Someday you will ache like I ache.”

“She must be guzzling Skinny Girl Quaaludes again,” he thinks.

She twirls her doll parts around the room in a gossamer gown, singing.

“Yeah, they really want you, they really want you, they really want you. They do.”

As the door shuts behind him, he hops into his Uber Helicopter, bound for the Übermensch Creation Center beneath Aruba, Jamaica and shrouded in that Montserrat mystique.

With her son gone, Ja'mie collapsed on the ground, crying.

“I fake it so real, I am beyond fake.”

* * *

Crack, crack, crack goes the mallet on his nose, smashing it in three places.

Slice, slice, slice goes the knife as it slides up his nostril and rips out the middle piece of cartilage.

Zoom, zoom, zoom goes the hot adhesive that fuses his truncated cartilage with his nasal bone.

Bzzz, bzzz, bzzz goes the saw, shaving his cheeks and chin to square his jaw (although he found the results to be a tad too rhombicular.)

Snap, snap, snap goes his collarbones and

Crank crank goes the rack, elongating his neck to baby giraffe length.

Rip, rip, rip goes the thread through flesh as his dumbo ears are pinned back against his skull.

Snip, snip, snip goes the scalpel through his eyelids, before each are pulled up and folded, giving him Anime-sized eyes.

Clink, clink, clink goes the rectangles of rock as each are slid beneath his eyebrows to pronounce a formidable ridge.

Zap, zap, zap goes the electrolysis laser into each follicle on his arms, armpits, back, legs and his below belly button mons pubis, damaging these so severely that each would never sprout hair again.

Slurp, slurp, slurp goes the hose as it sucks out fat from his neck, thighs and midsection.

Squish, squish, squish goes the gelatin as its splooged into his lips.

Flop, flop, flop sploosh goes the saline bags shoved into his chest cavity, solidified with Ice-Nine into rock-hard pecs.

Vroom, vroom, vroom goes the titanium reinforced shell, fused to his ribs to give his torso a capital V-shape in a procedure called Adam's Revenge.

All he can remember when he came to in an opiate haze was pain and bandages.

Pain and Bandages.

Bandages fused with pain.

Pain fused with bandages.

Every part of his body ached and throbbed. He had never even considered his knee's underside, but now its thousands of nerve endings screamed bloody murder after being severed to craft his perfectly-sculpted legs. His lacerated eyelids sealed to the bandages and he howled as the nurses yanked these off daily to clean his wounds. The ultra-dewebification procedure, which elongated his toes that sexy extra half inch, took him three weeks to relearn how to walk. Oh, and that agonizing inter-toe chaffing! This both created and popped blisters. Thankfully, the recovery rooms were covered in rubber floors to soften his often falls. Ironically, the procedure forced him to duckwalk for days.

He was scalped to implant cyberfolicles that would be coded to plume over any bald spot and could be updated seasonally with the hottest new hairstyles. But this itched infernally as his skin, hair and bandages grew together as a mesh of him and it. It took three hours each day for the cosmetic hairdressers to cut the bandages and reseal his new scalp to his head.

Ugh! And those cursed bandages that mummy-smothered every inch of his flesh would snag on doorknobs, furniture corners, and toilet lids. Oooo! That pain as each tug unraveled to expose his raw flesh to the world. The staff trained him to fight all natural instincts and savor this pain.

“No pain, no social status gain!” The loud speakers screamed the mantra daily.

He could sense he was surrounded by dozens of other Boujee Becoming of Agers. But, in this summer camp of the cocooned, he wasn't able to communicate with them. He struggled to move his throbbing banana slug plumped lips and his voice box hadn't yet learned how to hurdle the new golf ball-sized mound implanted over his Adam's apple. From air-conditioned rooms, through a light saline mist to salt open wounds, he could hear the groans of these boys to men in their season of loneliness. During full moons, he could swear the howls of pain sounded like some sort of Werewolf Bar Mitzvah--- boys becoming men, men becoming wolves.

“Arrrooooooo!” They'd howl their misery.

Before he left home, his step-papaw pulled him aside for a man's talk. He was thrilled to have an intimate one-on-one dinner, with only the essential waitstaff of seven to cut their food, spoon-feed them and wipe their cheeks.

“Brand-N, the key to a happy life is a happy wife. That's why I've paid for the Ultimate Pearling Special to supplement your manhood.”

And now Brand-N looked down at his tralala, which went ding-ding-dong as 76 beads of different sizes clacked along the length and girth of his penis. Clack, Clack! The ultimate, and forever lasting, ribbing for her pleasure. For hundreds of years, this trend, mianling, translated as Burmese Bells, spread from Southeast Asia to China, Japan and the Philippines, ringing through bedrooms and making clitorises sing. But this modification lost favor when European invaders put a stop to women's pleasure and taught them that the only acceptable sex was in missionary position.

Brand-N's penis-augmentation doctor had pierced his urethral walls, so when he pissed, he spurted from all sides like water pouring out a strainer. Though apologetic, the doctor assured him that urine is sterile and peeing out his many spigots would prevent infection. To further calm him, the dick doc stroked his ego by exclaiming that he's never been able to fit so many beads into one peen.

“It's Just So Big!”

The flattery stopped his complaints. But this did nothing to quell the pain as nurses doused iodine on his dong holes daily.

For a moment, he tried to conjure the pain the girls his age went through during their Becoming of Age gap year, before returning for a debutante ball, twirling in barely-there dresses to show their full-body transformations, from ripped out ribs to subcutaneous corsets to slenderized thighs, it looked as if each walked out of a funhouse mirror, stretched and thin. So gorgeous!

As the swelter of super-summer simmered down now, Brand-N returned a new man to start his junior year.

All the teachers ribbed the same corny joke on the first day back from the Becoming of Age summer.

“I see a lot of new faces here today.”

But he was so much more than a new face!

The other mid-Boujee's only received facial sculpting and a Groupon for a personal trainer, in hopes of eventually sculpting that perfect bod.

“But calluses are crass,” his step-papaw always reminded him and the twins.

No, Brand-N was fully transformed! He's 8% silicon, 6% titanium, 2% marble beading and 2% goat hair.

And all the betas buckled before their new alpha! He had even vaulted himself above the RC-Cola child. His stepbrothers gasped when they saw him. Brand-N had started with a better pedigree than them. His much hotter parents had given him an advantage over the twins. Their mother was a bony Connecticut Kensington whose face would sag into jowls on jowls on jowls.

Sure, he still lived in their shadows. He suffered when they each received a thoroughbred horse sired by a Triple crown winner while Brand-N wallowed with only a colt created through copulation with a stallion who peaked at Preakness. But he got a little thrill knowing that, after identical surgeries, they were just a less-hot version of him.

It wasn't only his peers who oohed and aahed over his imposing presence. Throughout his childhood, his markers: height, weight, body fat percentage, family medical history, genetic descriptors were sucked from all sources and sent to Def Corporation.

         
Last Track     Next Track