1

Cuntpunt. Say it with me, people. Cuntpunt. You know it, you love it, you religiously watch the National Cuntpunt League games on VRTV, adoring the first-person helmet cams which make you feel like you're part of the action. You played it as a kid, before it was outlawed by the Parents Commission of Improper and Violent Sports, Games and/or Hobbies. Your kids play it when you're not around, because they think you'll scold them for being law-breaking hooligans, but they don't realize you sort of want them to play it, because you secretly hope they get seriously maimed and net you some wicked disability benefits—hey, it's more money to score some virtual heroin with, right?

Yes, yes. Cuntpunt: our national sport. Now let's explore the rich history of this brilliant—but misunderstood—pastime of ours.

Like every proper sport, cuntpunt was invented by two blokes fucked on reindeer piss after they were dumped by the stone-cold bitch they'd both been nailing—separately, not together; though both agreed if they had had a threesome, they would've left the bitch hobbling with a cane, an eyepatch, a diaper, a grave need for rhinoplasty surgery, and a couple hearing aids for much of the foreseeable future.

Like every other sport, cuntpunt has come a long way since its humble beginnings. Would you believe the first iteration of cuntpunt was as basic as putting a ball into a net using only your foot? I can see where the word "punt" comes into play, but where's the "cunt"? Patience, dear reader. This is a story that needs to be savoured as it's told—like blowing a rapist's nuts off and then slowly but surely shooting him in every place except his head and heart, talking to him, teasing him, before finally leaving him there in the desert to eventually become a vulture's dinner.

Also like every sport, cuntpunt originally had a simpler name that didn't sound quite as cool, and—let's be honest here, folks—not as fun. Cuntpunt was originally known as "fisherman's wand." Boring, right? No desire to play such a stupid-sounding sport? You'd rather shoot yourself in the balls with a blowgun laced with dimethyltryptamine, right?

Don't blame you, and neither would Edmond and Carlos—the two blokes in question.

2

There in the forest, the pair wobbled to and fro, dizzy from the piss they'd guzzled straight from the dick, chuckling to each other over nothing the way men do when their brains have turned to goop. Their eyes were red and bleary, and they couldn't stop grinning. Rudolph, the reindeer who'd provided the laced urine, stood nearby, pawing at the grey-green lichen and white-spotted red-capped mushrooms littering the forest floor, gobbling them up as he awaited his next blowjob.

They'd just invented the gist of "fisherman's wand," their new (albeit conceptual) sport. Hallucinating and experiencing delusions of grandeur, Edmond believed this sport could become the next paddlewack. To his credit, Ed came from a wealthy line of hemophiliacs who would support any dream he had, because they feared one day he might be bruised by a landing housefly and that would be the untimely end of Edmond O'Ghoulian. So he definitely had the financial backing to make his dream come true.

"But this shit needs some work, Ed," Carlos Santos said, wiping drool leaking from both his heads. "We don't even have a fisherman's wand. What is a fisherman's wand, anyway?"

"Okay, okay," said Ed, absentmindedly giving Carlos and himself a little wank with thumb and forefinger from each hand. "New name: Pussykick."

"It don't rhyme, Ed. Sports gotta rhyme."

"Says who? Paddlewack doesn't rhyme."

"The angel sitting on your shoulder says so, Ed. His long golden hair's blowing and the Sun is shining on him. He says it's gotta rhyme."

"Oh, really? In that case, cuntpunt'll be the name of our sport."

"The angel is nodding. He likes it, Ed. But we need some rules. Rules give life meaning, Ed."

"I need another hit to give me inspiration, Carlos." Ed fell to the ground—gently, to avoid a sudden death—and crawled over to Rudolph. He looked back at the guy who gave him herpes. "You comin' with?"

"Yeah, yeah." Carlos hit the ground and flopped like a fish. "Ed, Ed! I'm swimmin'! Like back in Mexico! I'm a fish! Look!"

Ed saw Carlos swinging his legs up and down, repeatedly bashing his nose into the dirt, gobbling a mouthful and spitting it up into the air like he was squirting water. Laughing, Ed took Rudolph into his mouth and sucked until the piss squirted. His tongue tickled as the little blood vessels covering it absorbed the intoxicant-containing urine.

"Save some for me, jackass," Carlos said, finally reaching the reindeer's sucked-raw dick. He was splashed in the face as Ed aimed it at him, grinning as his eyes were stung.

Properly inspired, the pair shivered through the near-death experience that began each hit of reindeer piss and then got back to work. They had to create all sorts of weird rules for their new sport, cuntpunt. Weird rules legitimized a sport, made it go from being a simple game to the real deal. Carlos felt this venture would buy him a lot of beans. And maybe a robot he could fuck for money—for some reason he liked the idea of feeding quarters into his own robotic sex-slave.

3

Now you know the origins of the greatest game on Earth. Do you feel inspired to create something of your own? Because you should. Hell, maybe one day you'll be shagging a sheep in the mud and feel a lightbulb go off in your brain.

But that's your rodeo, kid. Let's get back to cuntpunt. How about a play-by-play report on the very first game ever played? Not the "actual," historically reported first game, but the real one. The one that never made it to VRTV. In fact, if you look this baby up, you'll be told it doesn't exist.

But it does. How do I know? Because my dad was Edmond O'Ghoulian himself. That's right. I'm his son, Conseco O'Ghoulian, the mixed-sperm lovechild of Edmond and Carlos—the very first baby born from two straight men, in fact. And I bet you thought it was amazing when two gay guys had a kid, huh? Carlos is my mom. He's still alive and kicking, though he never remarried after Dad died. But you didn't come here for my life story, did you? No, you came for the cuntpunt.

And that's what you shall get.

4

Roger Oleandersson, star forward of the Heyzeus Pajama Bottoms, stepped off the team's bus-plane and shrugged on his uniform-containing backpack. The sky was purple and veined a metallic yellow: the gold particles that'd been suspended in the damaged atmosphere to try and patch its holes. The sweltering heat made him wipe sweat from his brow and lick it off his hand. He grinned. Salty, perfect for playing cuntpunt. For reasons unknown to Roger—he'd failed grade-one science, after all—the airborne toxins released during play were ineffective if your sweat was salty. In the dressing room before the game, he'd be sure to swallow a tablespoon of salt and chase it with a bottle of water.

Glaring at the landing green-yellow bus-plane for the Jalapeno Clicker-Clackers, Roger helped his teammates unload the equipment. His muscles swelled as he worked. The mandatory steroid regimen left his balls withered to the size of those multicoloured fish-tank pebbles, but, boy, did it make his muscles massive. And veiny. He and the boys made quick work of the equipment. Smacking each other's tight asses, they headed off to the dressing room, letting the limp-wristed crew carry everything.

After performing their pre-game ritual for the first time—they pretty much just winged it; a little sacrifice to Satan here, mixing and consuming bodily fluids there—the Pajama Bottoms ran out onto the metal-plated field in a blur of sepia-coloured plaid. Their cleats clanked against the floor almost as loudly as the roars of the stadium's audience. The seats were packed and flags were waving left and right.

Above, a zeppelin advertised Ecrivain's Specials, the official cigarette of the National Cuntpunt League. Little kids begged their parents to buy them a carton.

"Alright, Hector," said one man as he printed a twenty-dollar bill from his credit-chit, "but you're gonna smoke every single one of those in front of me, got that?" He jammed a few cigarettes into the mouth of his two-year-old son and lit them for him.

"Goo-goo ga-ga," Hector said, already blue in the face.

Roger growled when he saw the Clicker-Clackers enter the stadium from the other end. He punched a fist into his palm and practiced casting off. Alphonso Joni, the team's goaltender, clapped his sound-gloved hands and warded off flying hips.

Then: the lights around the stadium dimmed, and the announcer said, "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WILL YOU PLEASE RISE FOR THE SINGING OF THE NATIONAL ANTHEM! JOINING US ARE THE CREATORS OF CUNTPUNT, EDMOND O'GHOULIAN AND CARLOS SANTOS, AND THE VOCALIST FOR PUSSYWILLOW STABBING VICTIM, MARK MACK!"

The players of both teams ran to the centre lines, staring each other down. The spotlight focused on the doorway to Roger's right, and out walked two older men who held hands, followed by a long-haired man with a needle in his arm, nodding off in a wheelchair being pushed by a robot. Mark Mack—Roger had been a huge fan of the guy when he was a teen; he knew all the Pussywillow Stabbing Victim hits, including: "I Bought Your Heart At A Garage Sale For A Buck, And Then I Took A Piss On It," "Your Face Looks Like My Ass, So Naturally I Fucked It Quite Hard," "Dead Swan In A Ditch For Some Reason," "Massacre In Aisle 3," "Satan Is A Dinosaur, Still Alive And Claiming Souls For The Army Of Darkness, Unlike The T-Rex," and—

"'Fucked Your Mother Twice, Once For Me And Once For You!'" Roger shouted, throwing up the horns.

Mark Mack's eyes opened a hair, and Roger swore he saw the man wink at him before his head dropped over his shoulder, drool pouring out his toothless mouth.

"Hello," Edmond said, obviously uncomfortable, shifting left and right. There was a rumour the man had AIDS and regularly required fresh diapers. "I'm pleased to see all of you here to watch the very first cuntpunt game. Carlos"—he indicated to the man holding his hand—"and I were young bastards when we came up with the sport. We've put a lot of time and money into this, so you better enjoy it. Anything to add, Carlos?"

Carlos jutted his head forwards, looking for a microphone to speak into.

"Just speak normally, love."

"Eh, no," Carlos said, and that was that. Carlos apparently had become a shut-in over the years and now hated large crowds.

"Alright, then. Mark Mack will be singing."

The robot whispered into Edmond's ear.

"I've been informed Mark Mack has died. Let the game begin!"

The robot pushed Mark Mack's corpse out the door. Edmond and Carlos followed.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN," the announcer said, "LET THE GAMES BEGIN!"

Roger stayed in his centre position, facing off against Greg Goring, the forward for the Clicker-Clackers, who growled and bared his teeth. Roger responded by punching him in the mouth, which was perfectly allowed; in fact, Roger would have gotten a penalty if he hadn't punched him.

And with that, the play had begun.

"OH, DEAR GOD!" the announcer said. "WE'RE OFF TO AN OUTRAGEOUS START! THE SCORE IS TIED AT 0–0, WHICH YOU CAN TELL FROM THE ASIAN-LOOKING SCOREBOARD UP ON THE WEST SIDE OF THE STADIUM! SEE THOSE TWO NOT-QUITE-CIRCULAR NUMBERS!? I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS! IT'S INSANITY! WHO KNOWS WHO WILL WIN!? I THINK I MIGHT DIE! HEART RACING! GETTING HARD TO BREATHE! ARM NUMB! WILL I—?! OH NO! IT WAS JUST A FLUKE! NO, WAIT! HELP—"

The announcer was pronounced dead and taken away on a stretcher for incineration.

Roger shrugged that noise away and focused on the game before him. He was the star forward—his job was to use his fishing rod to snag a hip, send it flying past the other team's goalie and get it into their net. The first team to score a hip won their team a million points and ended the game—generally in the computer simulations that meant the hip-scoring team won, but theoretically the other team could still win if the game had been going on for a while and they'd scored over a million non-hip points. A non-hip point was earned by winning a game of footbag. Meanwhile, he had Greg to contend with, as well as the other players on the field. Bodies collided all around him, flipping over shoulders, flying into walls, breaking through the pre-weakened protective glass and injuring spectators who'd paid a premium for seats almost guaranteeing they'd be injured and thus semi-famous among friends.

"Quit standing around and face me," Greg said from behind.

Turning, Roger saw him swinging his line around his head in a circle, the hook nearly snagging a teammate's eyeball. So it had come to this already. The faceoff. The goal of the faceoff was to kill the other player using only your rod and anything else. You didn't get any points, but it was a good way to weaken the opposing team.

"Come get some," Greg growled.

Using the moves he'd practiced just before the game, with a flick of his wrist Roger casted off his line. The hook dug into Greg's eye. Despite the man being finished just like that, Roger needed to finish him that much more, so he jerked his arms back, muscles bulging and veins standing out on his hands. Tugged forward, Greg landed on the floor with a clank, howling like no tomorrow. His burst eye popped out of its socket, making a sickening gooey sound, bloody optic nerves trailing behind.

Contorting on the ground, writhing in pain, Greg was a threat to no one. Roger readied his boot and swung it forwards, smashing Greg's face. Once, twice, thrice. And again and again. He lost count and only stopped when Greg's head was an amorphous mass of blood, brain and bone with only a stub of nose and a few teeth poking up out of it.

The crowd roared in approval.

Roger had won the faceoff, which meant Greg was removed from the game.

The plates beneath the man activated. The nanoparticles constantly travelling through tubes under the plates sensed a death had occurred. They were redirected to the dead man and millions of tiny needles stabbed through the plates, puncturing Greg's cadaver and injecting him with said nanoparticles. The nanites immediately set to work reanimating his damaged flesh, repairing his dead brain, bringing him back to life. In a few minutes, Greg's eyes opened and he picked himself up, wobbling like he was drunk, holding a hand to his head, before leaving the field and heading to the dressing room for recovery. Dying in a game of cuntpunt was a lot like having a vicious hangover combined with a mean drunk and maybe a sore throat, too.

With the enemy forward out of the way, Roger was free to go for the hip in peace. Rod in hand, he spotted a guy with ear gauges drinking a craft beer in the corner of the field. But he saw a man in the stands also with ear gauges, also drinking a craft beer, so he went over for a closer look to identify the brands and flavours. The man in the stands was drinking an Iron Man chocolate beer, whereas the guy on the field drank a Totally Uncool mozzarella-mocha, with cum-glazed pubes and organic, gluten-free orange-peel shavings and shards of sugar-dusted glass. Hip detected.

Bringing the rod back over his shoulder, Roger let his line fly. The hook snagged the hip by an ear gauge and Roger wrestled the bugger back towards the area in front of the enemy net. Dragging him kicking and screaming, he got the hip into perfect punting position, readied his foot and punted the cunt into the air.

The hip went soaring as he was meant to do, the holes in his ears somehow making him more aerodynamic, and he neared the net.

The goalie jumped too soon, realized his error too late, and tried to jump back while still airborne—naturally, this failed. He clapped his hands but the soundwaves weren't strong enough. His fingers reached for the hip but only grazed the man's dyed-blond, frosted-silver hair. The hip flew past him, hit the back of the net. He knelt, bowing his head, crying as his failure was punctuated with Roger's screams of triumph.

Roger raised his arms, ran around in circles, then bumped chests with his teammates.

The game was over.

The crowd was stunned into silence.

"That's fuckin' it?" one man asked disbelievingly, the stadium so quiet his voice sounded like it came from the speakers. He grabbed an Ecrivain's Special from the mouth of his son's friend and gave it a stressful puff. "I spent all my hard-earned retirement money on this shit?"

Collectively, the crowd booed, booed until both teams had left the stadium, and even after that.

5

So there you have it. The very first game of cuntpunt was retconned for ending too soon. It's not surprising, really, as most spectators had paid an arm and a leg for tickets, in some cases quite literally. One man left the stadium in a huff, just a torso with a head, bitching about how he could really use an ass and a leg so he could kick it for his own stupidity.

The sport quickly had some of its rules rewritten so a game would always last for at least an hour. Three periods were added. You could only score a hip in the third period, which didn't really help the other team at all—as the first two periods were timed at forty minutes each—but it certainly helped the fans feel they were getting their money's worth.

But, as you all know, cuntpunt returned stronger than ever, and its historically recognized debut game was received much better.

Sometimes failure is a good thing, though, which is why I think it's important to spread the word about it.

"What about the spectators who attended the game?" you might ask. Simple: They were hunted down and had their memories wiped.

Well, folks, that's one previously untold tale now told. I hope you enjoyed it. Join me next time, as I'll be revealing startling new evidence about ex-President Donald Trump's inbred mutant son with his daughter Ivanka. A little teaser for you: They kept him locked in a broken-down freezer and fed him rats and cockroaches.