The White Pube

I once met a man who was made of vegan meat. His skin looked almost ghostly, I thought maybe he was born and raised on the moon. He was hot, he was so hot. A bizarre beauty that made my heart pound out of my chest. TeHeHe. But he wasn’t human, it turned out. He’s some Frankenstein creation made from vegan meat, pieced together in a forgotten factory in North Yorkshire. He told me this as we vegged out in his warm cave in the woods. 

“I have a secret to tell you,” he whispered as sweat patches spread under his pits. Curiously enough, there was no trace of body odour – just the faint smell of pan-fried mushrooms lingering in the air. “I am made of vegan meat,” he said, clasping my arms like a climbing plant, “I have no real flesh, bones or guts – just a weird mix of soft grains and soya beans." 

Grinning, he pulls a bottle opener from his Heaven by Marc Jacobs coat pocket and twists it into his earhole with a grotesque, violent motion as if uncorking a bottle of wine. PpOPp.There is now a gaping hole where his ear once lingered but not a single drop of blood, just a thin milky fluid pouring out of the side of his head – like the liquid residue of tofu. The ear was devoured in eerie silence, his bone-white teeth sinking into its mushy flesh. He chewed slowly, savouring the fact that his very existence had conjured this plant-based, protein-packed masterpiece, as if God himself had decided to create a perfect creature from the finest plant-matter as a wild-hearted love declaration to veganism.  

I have witnessed strange things before. 

Aliens wandering down Hackney Road. Basquiat rising from the dead. Goats dancing on their hind legs in circles. Trees turning into steel. A tail growing out of my cousin’s ass. I have even read 120 Days of Sodom, for a laugh. But nothing, not even the most fucked up shit I could imagine, could prepare me for this.

I found my gaze drifting downward in some quiet curiosity, wondering about what lay beneath. A chill ran through my spine as the air flew in and out of the room. He released a gut-driven ha-ha, then unbuttoned his jeans, revealing a small tuft of Spanish moss peeking out of his crotch.

“It’s a great source of protein,” he said, cutting into his cock with a sparkling knife. The blade sliced through it with slow, jagged movements, like an axe splitting the finger of a tree. I found it kind of hot but then I’ve always been a weirdo. He’s a bright red flag, flapping in the wind like a worn-out warning, and I’m the kind of twat who wants to wave it without a second thought, as if it were the only thing worth reaching for. I’ve never been good at wanting what I’m supposed to, only what feels like I’m finally living. I want a life that feels like a wild untamed beast.

“Go on, taste it!” he said, offering it to me as though it were a rotting corn cob. Without hesitation, I sucked on its moon-coloured head, SLuRp SlurP. The long noodles of moss stuck between my teeth, which I pulled free with a flick of my tongue. I wasn’t expecting it to taste so good. Was I a cannibal now? Even if I was eating fake flesh made of plants, was it still cannibalism? But then again, who’s to judge? We all eat shit that pretends to be something it’s not—a bright green apple, blue cans of pop, a little slaughtered lamb—each one just a fake false version of what it’s supposed to be.

“You can cook it, grill it, toss it in a salad”, he explained, “and within seconds, the body parts grow back.” 

And it was true. I devoured the cock and sopped up the juices with bread in a wooden bowl and just as I finished, his parts sprouted back. Abracadabra, moist and plump, like pond weeds creeping up from the mud. His manic eyes turned shiny gold but apart from that, it was as if nothing happened. Fleeting magic. 

He said he’s running a multimillion-pound business, filling jars with chunks of his own meatless flesh down in the basement of his cave. He calls it Korn, after his favourite band, but when they sued him for fourteen million, he just swapped the K for a Q.

“But it’s pronounced the same,” he smirked, “Quorn.”

WoOoOw. My tiny brain was blown by how he outsmarted the system. Every supermarket has it in the health-food section, and with each sale, he earns more in royalties than most people see in a lifetime. I was in awe, so I kissed him on the nose and fucked him like an animal. 

bio

Summer Moraes is a London-based multidisciplinary artist working primarily through writing, performance and illustration. Under the name Mother Of The Insane, she creates wacky short stories filled with horror, surrealism and absurdity. Her live readings often take the shape of immersive performances, using props to blur the line between literature and theatre. She hosts the WORMS magazine podcast and writes the agony column Dear Mother Of The Insane.

the grant

This month’s grant is funded by a reader called Holly Gramazio – thank you Holly! if you wanna donate to keep the grant going, please email us (info [at] the white pube [dot] com) & please find previous grant recipients plus FAQs here