It was Tuesday afternoon in Catalonia, and Salvador Dalí was drunk as hell.
He’d been fucking with his latest painting since the wee hours of the morning, as the dark bags beneath his eyes would attest. His dingy yellow undershirt was stained with all manner of wine and paint spatters, and one side of his long, virile mustache had finally begun to droop a bit. He grumbled something under his breath as he mixed the pigments together, sighing heavily as he stopped beside a nearby table, trading his palette for a half-empty jug of burgundy.
His cock was giving him a hard time again.
“I mean, it’s just a bunch of fucking clocks melting—what’s so damn great about that?”
“Phw!” Dalí spat in response, wiping his purple lips with the back of his arm. “You are just a cock—what would you know of greatness?”
“Well,” his cock replied, unable to resist. “I may not know a lot about greatness, but I sure know a great big asshole when I see one.”
And that was all it took.
Abruptly whipping his bottle against the stucco wall, Dalí threw back his head and howled with indignant rage, enveloped in a scintillating storm of wine drops and glass shards. With eyes wide and mustache fully erect, he reached down, grabbed his cock, and socked it right in the head.
“Ow!” his cock cried, “that really fucking hurt! No, wait… Ahhhhh!”
Ignoring its pleas for mercy, Dalí proceeded to beat his ever-lovin’ cock without mercy. Savagely slapping and twisting it, wrapping his long, bony fingers around its neck, he squeezed and squeezed with all his might until he was sure it would die.
“Sal…” his cock managed to croak. “Please… you’re… kil… ling… me…”
Dalí paid no heed. “I will teach you, insolent cock!” he sputtered, his face gone crimson red. “I will teach you once and for all!”
Meanwhile, Gala sat crying on the sofa.
“Salvadoooooorrr,” she moaned. “Why must you beat your cock like this? Every day and night it is same—you beat your cock, and I sit here, and I cry, and I cry!”
Dalí looked up from the half-throttled cock in his hands, dark eyes glittering with hate. “You’d prefer I should beat you, woman?”
“And you’re getting feathers everywhere…” she trailed off, sobbing quietly into the cushions until he was through at last.
With every last ounce of spunk drained out of him, Dalí finally released his cock, panting heavily from the exertion. About the only exercise he ever took was when he was beating his cock, after all, and thus it came as no surprise how much the act winded him so. Still, no matter how old, drunk, or fat he became, Dalí took special relish in these vigorous cock-beating sessions of his, and no matter how frustrated he found himself on any given day, they always made him feel much better afterwards.
He picked a feather from his eye and looked down at the limp, lifeless thing before him, thoroughly disgusted by its pink, pimply skin; its floppy, foreskinesque wattle. Its broken, twisted neck, though… Dalí did not so much mind.
Sneezing violently, he brushed the feathers from his shoulders, cursed, and stumbled off in search of a broom.
“Come, naughty cock,” Dalí called into the darkness, creeping through the cellar with his lamp held high. “Come to me, my boy, and I promise to be lenient with your punishment…”
Several weeks had passed since The Persistence of Memory incident, but when you were Dalí’s cock, you could usually expect to be beaten at least once daily, if not more. Like all great artists, the man was tormented to the very depths of his soul, and it never took much to light his short fuse. Unfortunately, when it came to outlets for Dalí’s explosive anger, there was rarely one more readily at hand than his poor cock.
This time, Dalí’s cock had made the mistake of rising from his place unexcused at breakfast, and had been hiding in the cellar ever since.
The morning had gone well enough up until that point. Like most days, Dalí had taken him out of his cage around nine or so, descended the opulent grand staircase leading down to their rustic breakfast nook, and set him at the table. Then, just like usual, Dalí had proceeded to prepare their morning repast.
So good so far.
Seated on his lap, Dalí’s cock tucked into his customary spread of grains and seeds, situated at his father’s elbow. A cool, refreshing breeze blew in from the sea, mixing pleasantly with the warm morning sun shining through the open bay windows. Dalí sat contentedly sipping his cortado, flipping through the pages of the latest Mamacitas con Chichis Grande, which had just arrived in the mail.
It wasn’t long, however, before his cock forgot all about the meal in front of him, finding himself vaguely distracted by…
He’d considered it all day long, down there in the cellar, and yet Dalí’s cock still wasn’t sure what had caused him to leap up like that, spilling food and coffee everywhere, nearly flipping the entire table over in the process. Perhaps he’d experienced a demonic possession. Perhaps he’d simply lost his mind.
Or perhaps it was all those glossy, color photos of mamacitas con chichis grande that had caused Dalí’s cock to behave in such an involuntary manner. Contrary to what Dalí thought of him, he really was not a bad cock at heart. It was just that, sometimes, he simply couldn’t help himself.
Like father, like son, he supposed.
These ruminations were interrupted, however, when Dalí finally found him there, hiding behind the old furnace.
“Aha! There you are, cock!”
There was no use running away again, as this would surely only make things worse.
Far removed from Gala’s eyes, where not a soul would hear his cries, Dalí’s cock submitted to the beating of his life, there in the cold, damp dark of the cellar.
Some nights when he was left alone, Dalí’s cock would pick the lock on his cage and sneak up to the attic, where he’d established a secret little studio of his own. There he’d try his wing at all sorts of art—sculpting with his beak, painting with his tail feathers, and even banging out chicken scratch experimental fiction on a miniature typewriter he’d found up there.
One time, he made a film about an ill-tempered artist who habitually abused his cock. Since there were no other actors for him to work with, Dalí was played by Dalí’s cock, and Dalí’s cock was played by a small lump of clay. It took some time at first to form this into a perfect cock shape, but the burgeoning artist was able to hone his craft with each subsequent beating and the frequent resculptings these necessitated. Scene after scene, he would film himself beating the soft cock once again, before it had a chance to harden.
One night, Dalí and Gala were attending a masquerade ball in New York as the Lindbergh baby and its kidnapper, respectively.
Dalí’s cock stood before his latest masterpiece, palette in wing, beret tilted at an absurd angle upon his lustrous comb. Even in the dim light of the attic, one could see the pimply patches of bird flesh where his feathers had still yet to grow back since his last beating.
The painting was a reproduction of a photograph Gala had taken years ago, one depicting Dalí and his cock in a rare moment together—a moment in which the former wasn’t even thinking about beating the latter. Perched upon his father’s shoulder, the rooster was making a face like, “hey, I’m Dalí’s cock—isn’t that clever?” As for Dalí, he was making more or less the same stupid face he’d been making his entire life.
Dalí’s cock knew that he would never be a great surrealist like his father, and he also knew that Dalí would only laugh at his portrait of the two of them together, just as he had always ridiculed Dalí’s own works. Perhaps he was insecure, or simply jealous of his father’s fame. Perhaps he was both, and this was why he torched the painting within a week of its completion, reveling in a blaze of catharsis before finally extinguishing the flames with his tiny, cock-sized fire extinguisher.
One day, Dalí’s cock swore, he would find something he was good at.
If Dalí was mean to his cock when he was sober, he was positively awful when he was drunk.
One time, he got so drunk that he dunked his cock in a pitcher of sangria at a party, holding its head under until the poor thing nearly drowned in fruit, brandy, and wine. Then there was the time Dalí got bored at home, when he squeezed his cock into the narrow neck of a beer bottle, laughing hysterically as he did so. But then it got stuck in there. They had to smash the bottle with a hammer in order to free him, and Dalí’s cock still had the physical (and emotional) scars to prove it.
And if all this wasn’t bad enough, there was the non-stop verbal abuse as well.
“Curse this infernal cock!” he’d say, chasing it around the house with a bullwhip, or a pair of pruning shears. “I should’ve listened to Buñuel and got myself a dog instead!”
Dalí was always saying shit like that, especially when he got drunk.
Dalí and his cock were enjoying a pleasant evening at home, listening to phonograph records in the kitchen. Gala had decided to go out with some girlfriends on the spur of the moment, leaving the two of them to fend for themselves. They debated going out as well, but ultimately decided to stay in and cook dinner together instead—really nothing major.
Everything was going fine until they sat down to eat.
“So, my dearest cock,” Dalí began, greedily shoveling large spoonfuls into his mouth, “what do you think of my mother’s paella?”
His cock was seated opposite him, tentatively pecking at bits of hard, over-spiced rice, stringy shrimp, and week-old mussels. It was a crucial juncture, and Dalí’s cock knew it—either he could lie and risk the chance of getting beaten extra hard, or he could tell the truth and get his standard beating out of the way before bedtime. He continued to peck away at the awful dish before him, weighing the options in his head.
“You don’t seem to be enjoying it very much, cock.”
“No, it’s fine…”
“It’s ‘fine’, you say? My mother’s famous paella recipe, passed down to her from her mother, and her mother’s mother, and her mother’s mother’s mother before her, is merely ‘fine’ in your estimation?”
“No, Sal, it’s not that. It’s just that…”
“It’s just what then, cock?”
“It’s just that I’m sure your mother’s mother’s mother’s mother’s recipe is not the problem here, so you really don’t need to defend her.”
“Oh?” Dalí replied, setting down his spoon. “Tell me then, sweet cock, what exactly is the problem?”
Dalí’s cock looked up from the platter of inedible garbage before him, making eye contact with his father for the first time since they’d sat down.
“You may be the world’s greatest artist,” he began, choosing his words carefully, “but you wanna know something? You’re a pretty fucking lousy cook.”
Chunks of half-chewed paella fell from the corners of Dalí’s gaping mouth. For once in his life, his sharp tongue had been stilled in the face of his cock’s insolence. Finding no words, he suddenly snapped out of it, wiped his lips with an embroidered napkin, and went straight back to stuffing his face.
They sat together in silence after that, Dalí calmly chewing his food, his cock in utter disbelief. Had he really got away with saying that?
After the initial shock wore off, Dalí’s cock came to feel bad about what he’d said, certain now that he’d hurt his father’s feelings. Perhaps he’d grown so accustomed to being beaten at the slightest provocation, he almost couldn’t help but feel guilty in lieu of his customary punishment. So badly did he feel about the whole thing, he decided to punish himself by gagging down some more of Dalí’s putrid paella.
When Dalí had finally finished his third helping, he leaned back in his chair, gave a hearty belch, and patted both hands upon his distended belly. He scratched himself languidly, regarding his cock across the table.
“Ahhhhhhh,” he sighed. “I am full, cock. How about you?”
“I will take your plate,” Dalí said, rising from his seat.
His cock should’ve seen it coming. Instead of walking around the table to collect the plate as promised, Dalí lunged across it like a wild beast out for blood. Gripping his cock tightly in both hands, he pulled it within inches of his face and smiled.
“You haven’t finished your paella, cock.”
“I… But, I…”
“Here, have some more.”
Dalí pushed his cock into the mound of cold paella, smooshing it around and pushing it back and forth.
“How does it taste, cock?”
“What’s that, cock? I can’t understand you.”
Abruptly pulling it from the paella, Dalí smacked his cock hard against the table several times, spit on it, and punched it in the neck for good measure. Having loosened his belt earlier in the meal, his pants fell down around his ankles as he shuffled off across the kitchen floor, dragging his cock behind him.
Reaching the center island, Dalí flopped his big, meaty cock onto its tiled surface and cast about for something sharp. His eyes immediately lit upon the carving fork in the sink. Snatching it up in one hand, he struggled to wrestle his thrashing cock onto a cutting board with the other.
Holding it firm against the wood, Dalí raised the fork and cried, “I should’ve ended you loooong ago, cock!”
Dalí brought the fork down with all his might, but his cock was one slippery sonofabitch, especially after all that greasy paella. He wriggled out of the way just in time, and the fork sank deep into the cutting board.
“Have you lost your goddamn mind?!”
While Dalí struggled to pry the fork loose, his cock reared up and defiantly spat in his father’s face.
“Oh ho ho, cock, you will live to regret that,” he said, wiping the gob from his cheek. “But not for long!”
Dislodging the fork with a loud grunt, he raised it aloft once more, this time wasting not another moment before driving it down again.
A deathly stillness fell over the kitchen then, quiet now save for the mutual panting of the man and his cock. A dark red puddle bloomed beneath the latter, slowly spreading out across the heavy, oaken cutting board.
This is it, Dalí thought, knowing what he had to do. No turning back now…
Rummaging through the drawers in search of a proper blade, he muttered incoherently as the madness consumed what little was left of his mind. Tossing spoons and spatulas left and right, causing quit a clatter in the process, he eventually came up with an electric can opener.
“What the hell is that?” his cock gasped between labored breaths, its blood now dripping over the edge of the counter.
“How the hell should I know?” Dalí snapped back, fumbling with the alien contraption in his hands. Then, flinging it across the room in a fit of frustration, his crazed gaze fell upon the gas stove on the opposite wall.
A devious smile crept across his lips as he slowly turned to face his cock, the dual prongs of his long, black mustache more erect now than ever, a pair of devil horns in silhouette against the flames already burning in the pits of his eyes.
“Eeeeeyaaaaaaa!” his cock screamed as the carving fork was withdrawn from its side.
Hefting all seventy-three lbs of bloody cock over his shoulder, Dalí pushed off the center island and lurched in the stove’s direction, stumbling through the mess of blood, feathers, paella, and kitchen utensils strewn about the floor, his pants still around his ankles.
“Sal, don’t…” his cock pleaded, too weak to resist. “Please don’t shove me in the—”
Reaching the stove, Dalí opened it, shoved his cock inside, and summarily slammed the door on him.
“I will teach you, cock!” he bellowed, shaking both fists in the air. “I will finally teach you now who is BOSS!!!”
It was then that Gala appeared in the doorway behind him, aghast at the sight of his hairy ass, dangling balls, and hips pressed hard against the stove. Were it not for the shocking state of her kitchen as well, she may’ve reacted faster than she did in that moment.
Dalí’s cock could hear him cackling out there, frantically fiddling with the dials on the stove. He heard the hiss of gas and the clicking of the pilot light, followed by the jets of flame as they roared to life.
The last thing he remembered hearing was a woman’s blood-curdling scream.
After that night, Dalí’s cock had finally had enough.
As the boat pulled away from the dock, he gazed wistfully back at Port Lligat for what would likely be the last time. For all the torture and abuse he’d endured there, the place was still his home, and however much they’d been overshadowed by experiences he’d need years of therapy to overcome, he could not forget all the good times he’d shared with Dalí as well, there in that seaside village.
The times they’d spent strolling its winding roads, viewing films at the cinema, and eating in quaint cafes. Times they’d partook in other activities where beating one’s cock was generally frowned upon.
Those times when Dalí had stroked him ever so lovingly.
Dalí’s former cock knew that he was ready to move on with his life when he was finally able to look away, not back at where he’d been, but forward, to this future. He’d just finished wiping the last of his little cock tears from his little cock eyes, whispering “Farewell, Sal,” to the wind, when he suddenly perked up at the sound of someone shouting in the distance.
The boat had already made it some hundred yards down shore, but there was Dalí, chasing after it on the beach.
“Please, cock,” he cried, stumbling in his bare feet. “Come back to me—I beg you! I am nothing without my precious cock!”
His former cock had to avert his eyes, however, not because he felt sorry for his father, but because he just didn’t have the heart to let the old man see him laughing. When Dalí finally collapsed and tumbled in the sand, his face a twisted mess of grief and pain, it was all his former cock could do to resist bursting out in hearty crows of delight.
Dalí was left lying there, cockless and alone on the beach.
By the time he reached Barcelona, the rooster formerly known as Dalí’s cock had decided to immigrate to the United States of America. Upon its arrival at Ellis Island, it promptly got a tattoo, bought a gun, and became addicted to drugs and alcohol. Then it moved out west and started its own publishing company.
And the rest, as they say, is history.