The Stallion Shot
I would start big. There was no need to put it off, let my mind wrap itself around the sexual assault I would undoubtedly commit on it at some point in the day. Like ripping off a creamy white band-aid, I would take the Stallion Shot first. The stand was manned by two beautiful girls covered in bodypaint – one covered only in bodypaint – which, I assume, took some of the mental kick out of the fact that the stuff in the shot glass was formed just recently in the bollocks of a beast that could kick you dead in an instant. Emasculation is a disgusting chaser.
This year’s vintage came from an American stallion named Monarchy, who I’m told has had some major success on the racing circuit this year. Breeders would pay top dollar to get their mares all knocked up on what we were about to knock back. As it were, Monarchy’s Champion Juice was harvested within the last 48 hours, mixed with an extender to keep the sperm alive, given a small flavor boost (because the only thing more emasculating than drinking horse sperm is drinking strawberry-flavored horse sperm), and served up in a shot glass to the fine citizens of Hokitika.
I ordered two.
Not all for me, mind you. If I was going to be guzzling some of that fine pony spooge, then I sure as hell wasn’t doing it alone. I had a strategy, see? The girls selling the shots looked like fairly open-minded people, not to make blanket statements about the personalities of everybody who goes topless while painted as Batman at an all-ages event. So I bought a second shot, and asked if a friend could take hers as a body shot. It was the perfect crime. If I’m to do something so disgusting I’m hesitant to even tell people it happened, then at least I can make somebody look even more ridiculous than myself while doing it. Hiding in plain sight.
And I have to say, it wasn’t as terrible as I thought it would be. The texture should be obvious to just about anybody past the age of 13, and the taste – albeit altered slightly by whatever additives they injected – was far from the bitter, sour, spicy, whatever I should have expected from the reactions of my first girlfriend. It was a little sweet. I wondered what they fed Monarchy.
Of course, I lacked the frame of reference for human comparisons, so my attention turned to the horse semen dripping down from the vendor’s bellybutton, as it was slurped up into an unnamed friend’s throat. She wiped her chin.
“I think they’ve been feeding that horse pineapple,” she said.