T’was a chilled December eve, and Fred Phelps was resting in his home after a hard day’s work. He’d been spreading a Christmas message, letting people know that one day God would submerge Britain in the ocean for being too liberal and accepting of gays. It was his ultimate Christmas wish, and he knew that it would spread good cheer across the realm, if only he was true enough and prayed real hard to Santa, who he also believed in. 

Since Phelps had been such a good warrior of God this day, he had arranged a special treat for himself. An old friend was coming to Kansas, and he was bringing some festive holiday gifts. He kept his eye on the clock. It was 7:50pm, and his friend was on the way. Phelp’s felt a sudden pulse in his pants, just the once, gone as swiftly as it arrived. 

“Patience my pet,” murmured Phelps, his trembling fingers gliding over the crotch of his newly acquired skinnyjeans. “Tonight, we shall feast, and do so in jubilant God’s name.”

There was a knock at the door. So soon? Phelps peeled himself out of his chair, giggling like a schoolgirl eighty years his junior. His mind raced with wonderful thoughts; fond memories of his friend, moonlit dinners in the old chateau. He opened the door, and looked down to see a young lad. 

“Daddy, can you let me back in? I shoveled all the snow and I can’t feel my hands anymore,” whined Fred’s son. He forgot which son it was, due to a mix of senility and having an obscene amount of children to replace the ones that kept running away. 

“Fuck off,” retorted Phelps, angrily. He slammed the door in the boy’s face. 

His hopes dashed, Fred now paced furiously about the greeting hall, or at least paced as best he could for a frail skeleton of a man. Basically, he took a three steps forward and leaned against the wall. 

For ten minutes did Phelps lean on that wall, having slipped into one of his many mini comas. The doctors said that his continued lapses into a catatonic state had begun to disintegrate his mind, literally, like a crouton in soup. Of course, all doctors were in the employ of the Sodomite Damned, so he paid no heed to what they said, with their fancy diplomas and the invisible lions that sat on their head that only Phelps could see and the doctors insisted were products of his fragmented brain. He was roused from his sweet mockery of death by another knock at the door. It was eight o’ clock. It was time.

Phelps lunged for the door and pulled it open to find none other than presidential candidate Rick Perry, his sack bulging with delight. He also had a bag of presents with him.

“I’m not ashamed to be a Christian,” grinned Perry, and then he said some other things that didn’t make sense. 

“Oh, it is good to see you again, friend,” greeted Phelps, embracing the man warmly, before brushing his nose against Perry’s neck. 

The future president of the United States kicked the door closed behind him, already forgetting about the child that he’d passed on the way in, lying face-down in the snow. No time for small-talk, it seemed that any hint of subtlety was about to get dropped, just so we could rush right into the two old men having sex!

Rick Perry cupped Phelps’ chin in his hand and gazed longingly into his eyes. “It’s been too long, Fred. I’ve not been able to stop thinking about you.”

“Nor I you,” whimpered Phelps. “I saw your campaign videos. The way you told those gay soldiers to stop defending our country because they were gay and should stop being gay. It made me so erect for you.”

“And as I said those things, your stiff member is all I could think of. For when two straight men fuck, there is no better way to celebrate how much they hate gays.”

“That probably makes sense.”

“Probably.”

Perry’s eyes opened wide as he slid his tongue inside Phelps’ dry, salty mouth. Phelps, too, had his eyes wide open. That is how they always kissed, with their eyes wide open like frogs. They didn’t know why. Nobody knows, but just concentrate really hard on Phelps and Perry kissing, with their eyes wide open, and Perry making a strange gurgling sound, a sound that resembled a small girl throwing up. That is the sound Phelps had longed to hear, the sound Perry always made when they kissed. 

“You taste like roasted peanuts,” whispered Perry, gently. “Nice skinnyjeans.”

“Oh, I think it’s what’s under the skinnyjeans that will make you smile.”

“Oh, and what’s that?”

“My testicles and penis.”

Phelps fumbled with the button on the skinnyjeans, before pulling them down. The denim was tight and stretched out the loose, flapping flesh as it slid to the ground. Perry bit his bottom lip as he watched the sordid display, before frantically fumbling with his own impeccably pressed slacks. Perry yanked off his tie, ripped open his shirt, and stood in his tight underpants, emblazoned with the stars and stripes. Phelp’s bulging erection popped out from behind his own thong, saluting the proud patriotic display. They laughed at this hilarious imagery. 

“They call me Rick Perry, but tonight I shall be Dick Smelly. Because I am going to plunge my erect boner into your anus until it cums,” growled the candidate, seductively. 

Phelps dropped to his knees slowly, using Perry’s arm for support so he didn’t break anything. 

“I’m all yours … Mr. President,” he cooed below him. 

Perry, too, fell to his knees, before prizing Phelps’ sagging cheeks apart. He leaned in close, eyes squinting, sniffed the air, breathed in the lurid stench from his lover’s scabbed, red-raw hole. It smelled good to him. It was the sweating stink of a God-fearing man. Without a moment’s hesitation, he extended his tongue and ran it sweetly across the pulsating, blossoming anal cavern of the great pastor. 

“I’m not ashamed to say that your quivering dirtbox tastes erotic in my mouth,” smirked Perry, before sinking his muscular wet protrusion deep inside the clammy cave. 

Phelps’ eyes rolled backward and he sighed passionately, his mind overcome with intense pleasure. This wasn’t gay. Two straight men having sex meant they were combining their straightness to become super straight. It’s what Jesus had done with his disciples, assured Perry. Phelps remembered what Perry had taught him all those years ago, how to celebrate God’s name in the most erotic of ways, and how to pick up a pencil with his asscheeks. 

Perry grunted and groaned as he struggled to push his tongue deeper and deeper. His nose pressed hotly against Phelps’ crack, his face grew red with exertion. Phelps whinnied like a horse in heat, smacking his lips hungrily and nodding with approval. His dick was proper hard, and could have cum right off at any moment. 

“Your dick,” urged Phelps. “Fuck my ass with your dick!”

Perry pulled back, his tongue slinking out of Phelps’ juicy hole with a slimy squelch. A bridge of spit stretched between his mouth and the glistening, squeezy anus. Perry wiped the saliva and brown off his lips and grinned. 

“I’m not ashamed of the fact that I am going to fucking wreck that,” he said, eyes fixated on the swampy portal that twinkled before him, the outer lips contracting and throbbing, as if to hungrily beckon his penis. 

With his plonker in his hand, Perry shuffled nakedly toward Phelps’ squinting chocolate pipe, and he teased the red, swollen outside with the tip of his helmet. 

“I’m not ashamed …” started Perry.

“Shut up and fuck me,” screamed Phelps’, pushed backward and feeling that rigid, hot cock sink into his shitty sintubes. Both Phelps and Perry gasped with sensation as the politician sank balls-deep into the soggy underdepths of his old friend. Perry grabbed Phelps’ hips to steady himself, felt the pastor’s soft bones change their shape under the cracked fleshed, like a memory foam mattress, perfectly confirming to his fingers. Like a bucking gazelle, Perry thrust back and forth, his veiny shaft plundering that squirty tunnel for all it was worth. Phelps was overcome with emotion and began to weep, for it was like Christ himself was fucking him. It was divine. 

“You’re fucking me, you’re fucking me, you’re fucking me,” wheezed Phelps. He could already feel the pre-cum dribbling torrentially from his purple slit. It would not be long now. 

“I am STROOOOONG,” roared Rick Perry, the 47th governor of Texas, before an onslaught of frothy spunk poured violently from the end of his fat sausage and filled Phelps to the brim. 

Phelps fell forward, his own rotting juice dribbling out from his withered dick like a cat’s furball. He felt Perry’s almighty rod slither out from his passage, and then the hot creamy liquid dribble from his anus and run down his perineum. 

Perry fell backwards, sat on his bare ass, on the oak floor. His cock had already gone soft, and humanity returned to his eyes. Humanity and realization. Phelps could swear he heard Perry mutter, “Not again,” but he couldn’t be too sure. They stayed in position for some time, Phelps on his knees, Perry on his rump, the only sound between them being the tacky drip of Perry’s semen as it fell from Phelps and landed on the ground. 

After a while, Perry broke the silence. 

“I’m not ashamed,” he said, a shakiness in his voice. “I’m not ashamed. I’m not ashamed.”

They both knew it would happen again. 

Fred Phelps, pastor and hero to all good Christians everywhere, was out looking for some serious cock. Not just any old cock, though. Oh no, Fred had a very special penis in mind for a night of righteous shenanigans. For you see, God had many enemies, and Phelps was his chosen warrior on Earth. He’d had a message from the big general in the sky, and another battle was underway. 

Under cover of darkness, armed with a shovel and a bulge in his pants, Fred Phelps crept stealthily among the graveyard, looking for his prize. The pastor could not suppress a snigger as he looked at the graves around him, for he knew that every single person in this dirty was now locked in the eternal flames of Hell, where the worm never dies and the sodomite damned are punished for being the way God made them. 

Phelps was known in the media for humiliating and disrespecting the recently deceased. Of course, the ignorant masses of Damned America did not realize that God had commanded him to do these things, for all who died in America were being punished for sins most grievous. Anyway, this goes totally beside the point:

Basically, Fred Phelps was here to dig up a dead soldier and fuck its decomposing brains out. 

His family did not understand him when Fred presented his plan to the rest of the Phelps, but this was because they were foolish lambs who needed instruction in the workings of God. After beating the everloving shit out of his wife and kids, the pastor explained that to exhume and rape the stiff corpse of a US Marine was the ultimate humiliation, the perfect way to punish America for letting fags marry in the very few states that they’ve been allowed to marry in. Yes, the random slaughter of US Marines, some of whom would statistically have been homophobic themselves, was a righteous and just punishment indeed!

And there, before him, lay the pastor’s prize. The earth was still fresh, and the US flag that bravely clung to the headstone was still clean. This soldier had been given to the ground only recently. Phelps hoped the body was still handsome and muscular, with gorgeous pectorals and a nice six-pack. Not for gay reasons, he just felt that would make the sex more humiliating because of reasons. 

It took many hours for his shaking, brittle arms to pick their way through the moist soil, but the fire in his crotch, a fire given to him by God, had spurred him on. Every push of the shovel took him one step closer to a night of grotty gobbling with a stinking gunman. Eventually, he struck wooden gold, and desperately scrabbled to clear away the dirt of Private Armstrong’s soon to be sticky sarcophagus. 

“Oh Private Armstrong, you won’t be resting in peace. You’ll be resting in SPUNK,” said Phelps, immediately finding himself glad that the only people around to hear that comment were dead. 

Using his crowbar, the panting pastor levered open the coffin lid, sweat pouring from his brow and spittle oozing from his thin lips. The lid slid away and revealed, dressed in sexy military uniform, the decaying frame of Fred Phelps’ blue-green boyfriend.

Phelps’ cock grew rock-solid, which was surely a message from The Lord to drop his panties and get right down to it. This soldier, fag that he was, fought to defend a country that was founded by the Devil and populated by Jews. He deserved not only to die, but to get raped hard up his worm-bitten rectum. Filth like him would receive no quarter. 

Phelps wasted no time in fumbling for his rigid prick and pulling the cadavars pants around his grey ankles. Private Armstrong was stiffer even than Fred’s own cock, but it made it all the easier to get him undressed. Phelps could hardly contain himself, and as precum slithered off his throbbing bell-end, he began to lick at the dark purple bruising that covered the torso of his unbreathing delight. He kissed at the yellowing rings around each bruise, and slowly fingers his hard balls. Phelps could contain it no longer. 

He flipped Private Armstrong over and stuffed his warty cock right into the man’s unyielding, dried-out anus. Fred almost cried as he forced his way in, eagerly spitting into his hand and rubbing the saliva around the shaft of his knobbly twig. Armstrong’s puckered ringpiece offered heavy resistance, but eventually yielded, and Fred Phelps grunted with sordid relief as he felt his gnarled serpent slide into paradise. 

With what little strength remained to him, Fred began to pound into Armstrong’s back with closed fists, laughing and weeping at the same time, thrusting in and out of the dead, cold hole, a hole that began to expand as the rectal walls ruptured and the fragile insides were reduced to kibble with each stab of Phelps’ member. Surely God was smiling upon this satirical jab at America’s armed forces. For indeed it was satire, and there was nothing homo about it. 

Eventually, Fred’s knees weakened and he knew he was closed. Before he came, the Holy man pulled out, and pushed the corpse to the ground. He felt the brittle legs of the deceased soldier crack and groan, but he cared not. Clinging onto Armstrong’s hair, Phelps whacked himself off into a frothy frenzy, and spunked up all over the decayed private’s boyishly attractive face. 

Phelps dropped to his knees, looking into the unseeing eyes of a man wounded fatally in combat. He then kissed the young man deeply. Deeply and passionately, and gratefully. Grateful for the chance to perform a rampant fuck in servitude to Heaven. He kissed, and he kissed, his tongue exploring the papery remnants of Armstrong’s gob. He also sucked. And then he bit. And then he bit harder. And then he felt his cock grow hard again as he bit a chunk of Armstrong’s tongue off. 

Phelps was overtaken with another message from God. “Eat it,” God commanded Fred. “Eat it and fuck it and fuck it and eat it.”

He chewed Private Armstrong’s lips as he began to beat off his glistening rod. His teeth sank into the pallid, colorless face of his pulseless fucktoy. He chewed and he bit and he swallowed and he laughed. Laughed, laughed, laughed as he jerked off and ate the corpse of a soldier. 

Fred Phelps sat at the bar, his shifting eyes glowering at the mass of sin and degredation that surrounded him. As he sipped his bright pink cocktail, Phelps tried to hide his disgust and rage at the parade of filth he found himself surrounded by. The leather bra strapped to Fred’s otherswise bare chest also chaffed his nipples like crazy. 

Phelps was wearing only this bra, a pair of assless leather chaps, and a bright pink rubber thong. Unusual attire for the honorable pastor of Westboro Baptist Church, but this was an unusual mission. Phelps had donned the garmentry of the faggots in order to infiltrate a new club that had opened in Kansas, The Ruby Swan. This bar was, of course, a den of corruption that had been given over entirely to the encouragement of gays. Further proof that America was a faggot loving nation destined for doom. As soon as Fred had heard of this new gay club, he hastened to visit it. Purely to spy on its wretched denizens, of course, in the name of The Lord. He had been coming to The Ruby Swan for eight weeks now, sipping delicious cocktails and rubbing his scrote while looking at the half-naked men, soothing his penis with his hands to keep in all the Christianity that was trying to come out of his swollen helmet. Phelps always kept his Christianity in his ballsack, and it always tried to escape when he was feeling particularly religious. Phelps felt very religious in this club, because watching two men make out filled the pastor with Holy rage. 

Suddenly, Phelps felt a firm hand rub against his bare, scaly, spotted back. He shivered to the touch, and a deep voice whispered in his ear. 

“Well hello there, handsome, I see you’ve come back,” came the voice. 

Phelps turned to see the stunning, bronzed Adonis stood before him. Muscular, tight, tucked, skin a golden hue and eyes that could melt iron. He was truly a beautiful and stunning man. Proof that Satan is seductive, thought Phelps. Naturally, the Reverend’s prime inclination was to tell this Jew-loving queer to fuck off, but Phelps was on an undercover mission from God, so had to play the role of a gay. 

“I can’t keep away,” murmered Phelps, “I love looking at men who are gay, and no mistake. It makes my boner proper erect.”

“My name’s Rodriquez,” smiled the man, “Let me buy you a drink.”

“Sure thing. I’ll have the gayest drink on the menu. Make it really gay, because I am a gay,” answered Phelps, who inwardly smiled at how convincing his pretend gayness was. 

Phelps’ plan was truly brilliant, and had been gifted unto him by God himself. The logic was thus: Gay people go to Hell for doing gay things, where they will burn in the eternal fires and be feasted upon by the worm that never dies. So, in order to make gay people go to Hell, Phelps had to make them do gay things. Thus, he would come to this bar every week, and fuck gay men, making sure they would definitely be condemned to Hell. The logic was flawless, and thus far it had worked perfectly. Phelps had condemned seven young men to The Pit Eternal already, having fucked their brains out and taken a fair amount of serious cock up his slack and slimy shitpipe. God was most assuredly pleased. 

“I’ve been watching you these past weeks, baby,” sighed Rodriquez. “You’re one hot little minx.”

“Boy do I know it,” smiled Phelps with a sweet, alluring smirk as he tenderly brushed a bony set of fingers along his pock-marked inner thigh. “I’ve seen you before, checking me out. But are you ready for this jelly?”

With great deliberation, Phelps stood up from the bar stool and turned around, giving Rodriquez a full glimpse of his hot Christian body. The delicious liver spots on his back, the lickable ridges of the spinal column that poked out from thin and pallid flesh, that sweet butt protuding from either side of Fred’s tight thong, lumpy and doughy like mouldy potatoes in a wet bag. Phelps could tell that Rodriquez was proper turned on. 

“I’m ready,” said the fag, overcome with faggy lust. 

“Then come and get it,” cooed Phelps. “Right here, in this very bar.”

Rodgriquez needed no further encouragement. He embraced Fred in his strong arms, and kissed him hard and deep. Phelps moaned gratuitously as he returned the kiss, pushing his ulcer-riddled tongue further and further into Rodriquez’s slick and slimy mouth. The Reverend reached down and grabbed Rod’s ass, squeezing those tight buns before his trembling fingers reached around the front. Phelps could feel the eyes of the club on him, but he didn’t care. All he could think about was taking Rod’s hot and hard cock in the name of God. 

With nervous excitement, Fred unleashed Rod’s throbbing dick from its cage, pulling out a magnificent prick that swelled in his hand. As the two men continued their impassioned copulation, Fred began to milk the enrorged shaft, tugging eagerly on a penis that already grew slick with pre-come. It wasn’t long before The Reverend was on his knees, kissing and slurping at the veiny truncheon before him. 

Out the corner of his eye, Phelps saw other gay men approaching. Let them approach, he thought, let them approach and be damned. Other cocks hovered into view, and Phelps realized that the other club members had gathered round him and Rodriquez, their own cocks out and their fists pumping hard. The pastor then realized that he had scored bigtime — he was in the middle of a circlejerk, and that meant he could consign an entire batch of faggots to Hell in one night. Truly the Lord had smiled on him this day!

Grabbing Rod’s prick in one hand, Phelps blindly reached out with his free hand for the nearest foreign cock he could grab. With two penises now in his grip, Phelps jostled them swiftly, skiing with them. Oh, how he did ski with those tumescent fucksticks! As he pumped away, Fred looked at the other queers with a challenge. 

“Well?”, he demanded, “I’ve got a mouth going begging. Any of you fuckers gonna fill it?”

It did not take long before not one, but two men stepped forward. Two large, hairy bears in leather studded vests marched toward the Reverend, their massive pricks jutting out like the horns of a two-headed rhino. For a moment, Phelps was worried that his mouth would not accomodate, but he chastised himself for doubting. The Lord would make sure that both those cheesy spunktubes would fit. And fit they did. 

Phelps now kneeled there before the crowd, a prick in each hand and two fat cocks in his mouth. The thin and sagging cheeks of his face made Phelps’ mouth extra stretchy, allowing both bears to stuff their wads in without discomfort. Perfect. As Phelps milked and suckled and groaned and drooled, he felt a fresh pair of hands fumble behind him. A new challenger had arrived, and he had pulled aside Fred’s pink thong and spread his greasy cheeks apart. 

Fred almost screamed with delight as he felt a tongue push inside his puckered little asshole. His eyes widened as he felt a hot, thick, slimy muscle worked its way deeper and deeper into his aching rectum. As one gay ate out his asshole, Phelps felt the helmets in his mouth get slicker and slicker, and he knew he was about to taste his salty reward. 

It didn’t take long before Phelps was almost choking on jizz, the two bulging fags stood in front of him groaned with a bass appreciation as two thumping streams of liquid silk filled Fred’s throat to breaking. At that moment he felt the two men beside him shudder and an arcing jet of sperm was unleashed from the pastor’s hands. With the tongue still worming around inside of his own anal cavity, Phelps himself shook violently and then felt his thong grow damp as his screamingly erect cock squirted clump after clump of sticky hot lovepiss. 

All around him, the onlookers masturbated and came. Phelps fell backwards as he felt splatters of foreign semen land on his half-naked and sweating body. Overcome with sexual thrill, Phelps smeared the jizz of at least twenty strangers over his flesh. He felt semend in every little crevice, dripping into his bellybutton, trickling down his neck, growing cold between his fingers and turning his own pubes into a marshland of oily pricksnot. 

And this was all before he let the barman shit on his chest. 

Yes, many men had confirmed their invitation to Hell that night. Phelps only hoped that Satan would tell them who had sent those faggots there. Faith will truly be Fred’s victory!

And so it came to pass one day that Fred Phelps had met a Jew. Fred Phelps hated the Jews almost as much as he hated the gays, but our wily pastor had a plan, he did, and he would execute it this day. The Jew, who happened to be an eighteen-year-old, muscular, shirtless young man called Lee, was ensnared in Phelps’ trap and he didn’t even realize. For you see, Fred had taken Lee into his confidence, pretending to be a poor old man named Fredschel Phelpelski who needed a lithe young man’s help around the house. Every week, Lee came to Phelps’ house and tidied up, worked the yard, did whatever it was that “Phelpelski” needed doing in his frail twilight years. Oh, if only Lee knew the truth!

Lee was working in the garden and Phelps kept watch from his bedroom on high, peering out of the window through pried blinds, watching Lee’s flexing muscles cut the grass outside. Phelps took his eyeglass and noted the sweat dripping from Lee’s bare teenage back, listened to the youth’s grunts and groans as he steadily ploughed Phelps’ unkempt backyard with his hard and sinewy body. Phelps stared with a hatred so pure it almost felt like sexual longing, watching this boy rake his leaves and spray his glistening hose all over Fred’s musky soil. Today, however, after so much filthy Jewry, Fred Phelps would have his revenge. 

Fred invited Lee in for a lovely glass of lemonade, and when the unsuspecting lad came in, he was shocked to find that his supposed employer was lying on the kitchen counter, dressed only in a tigerskin thong, stroking his reedy and ravaged thigh with twig-like fingers. Lee stumbled over his words as he attempted to accept the image of a near-naked 80-year-old sprawled seductively on a kitchen surface. 

“I… uh… I don’t know what…”

“You’ve been doing some fine yardwork, boy”, Phelps cooed before him, “I think it’s time you had your lemonade.”

With a surprisingly agile quickness, Phelps slid like the tempting serpent of Eden from the counter and slunk seductively toward the rotten Jew. 

“You’ve been such a good Jewish boy for old man Phelpelski, and I thought I’d give you a taste of my… special lemonade as your just reward.”

“When did I ever say I was Jew-“, the boy began. 

“Ssssshhhhh”, whispered Phelps as he drew a bony finger over Lee’s thirsty lips. “No talk… no talk.”

Phelps slowly, with a charming timidness, brought his weathered and dry lips to Lee’s. One man and one boy — no — both men they were, closed their eyes and a passionate kiss was shared between them. For indeed Lee had longed for this day, and Phelpelski too. But unbenknownst to Lee, this invented character of an old Jewish man was but a ruse, a ruse for Phelps to do God’s work. For you see, Phelps’ plan was that he would take this Jewish lad, and fuck him, and fill him with the seed of Christ. In essence… Fred Phelps was about to FUCK the Jew out of him. 

Fred Phelps gently brushed a gnarled hand over Lee’s bare chest, making sure to caress each nipple with tender loving care and feeling them go hard to his soothing touch. Methodically, he unzipped Lee’s jeans, and Lee was all to eager to shuffle his legs and let them slink down his tight and tanned thighs. Phelps looked down to see a sizable lump in Lee’s boxer shorts and he looked into the lad’s eyes, giving him a wink and a sly grin. Phelps kneeled down, his knees cracking in a sublime way, before he slid the shorts down and watched Lee’s hard, beautiful, eager cock spring out. Phelps slid back Lee’s foreskin to expose the blatantly Jewish helmet, and began lapping his tongue over it, paying extra attention to the male clit underneath. Lee moaned gorgeously above as Phelps took the cock in his mouth. 

Phelps greedily gorged on Lee’s throbbing prick as if it were the word of God made physical and delicious. With a free hand, Phelps cupped Lee’s aching balls and massaged them. They were cool to the touch, and the scrotal sack tightened in his loving grip. Phelps knew that The Lord was watching and smiling at this wondrous conversion of another filthy Jew rat. 

The Reverend licked and slurped and gobbled until Lee could stand no more. He almost screamed with passion as he spunked his Hebrew splatterings all over Phelp’s anxious face. Phelps closed his eyes and felt the delightful warmth of Lee’s tender cocksnot splash against his sweating, panting face. He felt it tickle as it dripped down scrunched eyelids, down saggy cheeks, into a waiting and gaping mouth. 

“Now it’s my turn,” said The Reverend. This was it. Now was the time to thrust in the name of Heaven and fuck those heathen ways out of this bastard devil child. Lee was quick to obey, turning around and preparing to present himself for the stern mounting that was about to occur. In the name of God, Phelps prepared his Christian boner for a righteous raping that would never be forgotten. 

Then Phelps spermed all down his legs as soon as Lee bent over. 

Hours later, as Phelps recalled the rancid prickjuice sliming out of his little mushroom dick, the sobbing apology to a disgusted and disappointed eighteen-year-old, and the hours of screaming and wife beating that followed, he considered how it was he who had fallen for a crafty Jewish plot. Clearly it was the filthy heeb who had tricked him into orgasming all over the kitchen floor and making his feet all wet with baby-slime. For it was not Phelps’ fault that his damp dick had squirted its bollockswamp all over the tiles instead of up Lee’s salty rectum. It was clearly the fault of the Jews. They had caused his dick to get softer than a stick of shit after puking up a premature batch of fuckbatter. 

But Phelps would have his revenge one day. Against all Jewkind. 

And so it came to pass that the Reverend Fred Phelps did learn that Dio had died. The founder of the Westboro Baptist Church was more than acquainted with this grievous sinner, he who had popularized the so-called “Devil Horns” and brought blasphemy to the world with every public appearance. Fred Phelps’ hatred for Ronnie James Dio and all who follow in his Satanic wake was great and glorious, and to show his family just how much he hated Dio, Phelps maintained a massive collection of albums featuring the metal legend. Phelps would often listen to the music of Dio, for it reminded him that sin was buried into society like a wretched tick. The pastor would make his family watch him as he played Dio incredibly loudly, wearing only his underpants and throwing the horns. He informed them that this is what sinners did, so they had to watch him do it all the time and be ready for encounters out in the real world. 

Phelps was delighted to hear that Dio had died and would now join the sodomite damned in the bowels of Hell, his flesh reborn to house an eternity of agony at the hands of Lucifer and his sorcerers. Phelps felt a fire in his belly and a surge in his groin, for the thought of Dio’s naked body being whipped for all time by greased, bethonged creatures of darkness made Fred as hard as the nails that were driven into Christ’s hands. Falling upon his knees, Phelps scrabbled to his secret cabinet where his prized collection of Dio LPs were kept, locked away lest the sinful get their hands on such vinyl villainy. Unlocking the cabinet with a key around his neck, Phelps dragged out the records and spread them on the floor, looking at the many images of Dio and laughing to himself. 

“You’re in Hell now, Ronnie James Dio, and there’s nothing you can do about my boner,” cackled Phelps with righteous glee. 

In a hurried, almost animalistic manner, the pastor tore his clothes from his writhing body. In a matter of seconds, Phelps was naked except for his socks and sock suspenders, splayed on his hands and knees like a faithful hound of The Lord. Between the sagging flesh of his veiny thighs, Phelps’ erect member stood, as unyielding and rigid as the Holy Cross. Phelps knew that in order to prove his fielty to God, he would have to desecrate these relics of Dio in the most humiliating manner possible. He would have to jizz all over the record covers. It was the only way to be good in His eyes.

Phelps eagerly clawed at his throbbing, aching cock with his gnarled and withered hand, still bent on all fours. Hunched and panting over a copy of The Elf Albums, the noble pastor focused on the face of Dio, and imagined that he was being forced to suck Satan’s dick. In order to further enjoy the moment, Phelps imagined that HE was Satan, performing Dio’s unholy punishment in the name of The Lord, who knew Phelps to be just and fair. Phelps groaned with pleasure as he imagined Dio’s wet lips wrap around his salty member. He could see Dio’s stripes, but he knew he wasn’t clean. He was a dirty little girl, and Phelps was the matron. In his mind, the Reverend imagined Dio wearing a schoolgirl uniform while he wore the dress of a stern Jewish teacher. “Ooh, Dio, you’re a dirty young thing, sucking on pussy after lights out. Well now you have to suck my Fred Phelps boyclit!” These are the things Fred Phelps imagined, for they were the things Dio must endure in Hell. 

Phelps was overcome with a lust that must surely have been gifted him by God as reward for his desecration. Phelps began humping his fist, his twig-like hips thrusting back and forth, giving him the appearance of a leathery snake covered in liver spots. He began grunting like a pig stuck in a river of wet sugar, caught betwixt pleasure and pain, love and shame. He was like a rutting stag in his naked glory, but Phelps knew it was not enough. Dio’s memory had not been shamed to a satisfactory extent by this Heavenly display. Phelps crawled to his feet and waddled out of the music room to the kitchen, his tighty-whiteys still tangled around his ankles like God’s wrath tangles around Doomed America. 

The Reverend frantically pulled items out of the cupboards and larders with trembling hands that were already slick with pre-come. The warrior of God then spied what he needed in a bag in the fridge. A carrot. Firm and young. Orange and supple. A wholly Christian item, so solid and long, like the faith of all true believers. Phelps almost tripped up as he hurried back to the Dio records and fell once again to his knees, tears streaming from his eyes and his cock as he felt overcome with the pious power of his actions. 

Bending over, Phelps held the carrot to his lips and dribbled over the pointed end. 

“With this carrot, Dio, I stab at thee!”, declared Phelps with all his heart. Then Phelps stabbed at his own pouting, red-raw and hungry anus. 

At first, his ringhole attempted to resist the pressure of this holy carrot, but slowly it yielded like the heathens must yield to The Father in time. The carrot slid in with a sticky slurping noise, the kind of noise Phelps imagined that Dio’s mouth would make on his quivering donk. The carrot slid in an out, and the pressure made his hemorrhoids sting, but he realized that this pain was a sacrifice he must endure to demonstrate his purity. Thus lubricated by his saliva and rectal mucus, the carrot gained ground and began to fuck his protuded, milky anus with rigorous aplomb. Phelps moaned sensually as the carrot raped his sacred opening, and he thought of Dio, lying naked, his own anal crevice violated by the hordes of Hell. Phelps told himself he was parodying Dio, enjoying the pleasure of anal stimulation while Dio’s was being raked and clawed and torn to shreds as retribution for singing some songs that he wasn’t fond of. A deserved punishment indeed. 

Just then, the carrot hit his G-Sport and Phelps barked like a dog. Again and again, the carrot’s inquisitive orange finger rubbed his prostate, and there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. Faster and faster, Phelps fucked himself with a hand that he knew was being guided by Christ. Drool flowed freely from his mouth and his wrinkled buttocks flapped and swung with intensity. Within seconds it became too much, and as Phelps imagined Dio spunking all up in his face, Phelp’s anus farted and he was brought to a shuddering orgasm. Phelps’ seed sprayed out like light from Paradise, splattering all over Dio’s records and diminishing their resale value. Phelps pulled the carrot from his slobbering spicehole and began sucking on it eagerly as the last drops of spunky goodness squirted from his screaming plonker. As the carrot was removed, a fine spray of watery shit came out and hit the wall, before more solid lumps of backdoor clay tumbled from his gaping, yawning choco-portal, piling up in brown and stinking ornaments on the floor. Phelps sat back, feeling the shite against the cheeks of his ass. He felt the warmth and the shame, and he knew it felt right. Black and blue in the midnight sea. 

He rolled backwards, smearing the feces all over his spine and pretending it was Dio’s feces. He rolled around in the shit, weeping profusely and asking the Lord for guidance in this great endeavor. The shit did stink verrily, and the smell of it made Phelps gag and bring up a bit of bile, which he then licked from the carpet. 

Phelps lay there, covered in spunk, anal juices, shit and bile, and he knew it had been a good day. A good day in service to God. He knew that Dio would be forever shamed this day. Here endeth the lesson.