Subject: Professor Sigmund Voyde: "On the Origins of the Interpretation of Dream-like States"

Date: Sun, 28 Sep 1997 02:30:33 GMT

From: (Nolan Voyde)

Organization: MindSpring Enterprises, Inc.

Newsgroups: alt.slack



by Professor Sigmund Voyde


I awoke with a sudden start, which caused me to jerk my head up from

the bed violently, precipitating a painful jar against the bust of

Moses hanging over my bed. "Fuck!" I screamed. As the blood ran down

my face onto my semen-stained blankets, I reached for a Handi-Wipe and

suddenly remembered the dream that had caused me to awake so suddenly.


In the dream, a man who I believe was myself sat on a hard bench in a

train station. It was late at night, and there were few people in the

station, mostly queers cruising for security guards that were changing

shifts and dressing in the bathrooms. A rank odor of semen and urine

permeated the station. An effeminate homosexual with lipstick smeared

across his mouth and half his face walked by, trailing droplets of

mucoid fluid on the floor from the bottom of his brightly colored

polyester pant-leg. It had no effect on the man/me. He was bored,

miserable and beyond erotic impulses. Besides, the man had

masturbated seventeen times in the last twenty four hours. It would

be at least another ten to fifteen minutes before he felt horny,



Time passed slowly, each tick of the great station clock representing

another eternity of limp-dicked waiting. For what? I, the man, did

not know. It was early in the evening, and the station grew colder as

time wore on. The man shivered and huddled into his coat, under which

he wore nothing but a jockstrap and a cockring. And a butt-plug. And

nipple clamps. And a condom. Better safe than sorry. Although the

advent of AIDS was nearly 80 years in the future, he had already

decided to play safe when masturbating in public.


After what seemed like hours, but was only minutes, the man slumped

over and fell asleep.


What was the meaning of this dream? I wondered as I toweled the fresh

blood and dried semen from the night before off my face and chest. I

looked at the leering grin of Moses over the bed, my blood hanging in

a coagulating stream from his chin. He looked like a gargoyle who had

sucked my cock and received an ejaculation incarnadine for his

trouble. "Old devil", I laughed to myself, "as if you'd ever had the

satisfaction." I masturbated to orgasm three times before dressing

without a shower. I'd showered last week for the first time in

months, and a cockroach had been found on my kitchen sink later that

day. I had resolved then to shower less often.


My dream about the train station still puzzling me, I snorted a

half-ounce of uncut pharmaceutical cocaine and prepared to see the

first of my eight victims and tormentors, combined. My patients. I

had so many great thoughts, so many writing projects, so many assholes

to destroy and have my revenge upon. It was grotesquely unfair that I

had to earn a living by seeing patients like other psychiatrists.

Fucking world of philistine cocksuckers, couldn't they see I'm a great

man who should not have to work? Shit.


My first patient, Emma Weiss, showed up promptly on time. It was

10:00 a.m., and I was desperately in need of more cocaine. I snorted

another half-ounce, injected another 1500 cc's, and gave Emma two big

fat lines to get her ready for her session of free-association

cocksucking. I drank coffee and absinthe and smoked a cigar as she

bared her breasts and dropped to her knees. Suddenly, I was pissed.


"BITCH!", I screamed as I jerked her bodice back up over her fleshy

globes. "Stop reminding me that you're a woman!" I impressed the

lesson upon her by whipping her across the face with my razorstrap.

She mumbled something I took for an apology as she sucked eagerly, the

paint-peeling odor from my crotch arousing her to a fever pitch.

"Jesus!" I thought as I ejaculated, "good sex is hard to find."


After Emma left, I ordered my sister-in-law, Minna, into the therapy

room and spanked her ass with a braided rope to drum up some

inspiration for my work on the neurological mechanisms of

sadomasochism, but my heart just wasn't in it. I called in my

daughter, Anna, and ordered her and Minna to whip each other while I

tried to think. Anna asked me if my departed patient, Emma, had

satisfied me properly, and did I need another blowjob? Just like a

fucking woman, always trying to anticipate your needs and desires.

It's fucking sick, man. I should know, I'm a doctor.


I abruptly ordered them to cancel my remaining appointments and charge

the patients double. Grabbing my overcoat and wrapping it around my

body tightly with leather cords, I left the house in search of kicks.

First, I wandered around aimlessly, riding buses and taking a taxi to

the Vienna suburbs, where I found myself completely lost with no idea

how to get home. I started to feel more comfortable, at last, despite

the painful swelling of my prostate. Over two hours since I had

ejaculated. This cutting down on sex wasn't doing me a fucking bit of

good. A man could develop a neurosis, this way. Hmm, perhaps another

Great Theory a-borning? I resolved to work it out later, with Minna

and Anna to help me while my wife watched, tied to a nail-studded

chair, as usual. Quite inspirational.


Right after that thought, I saw my friend Freidrich Neitszche walk by

across the street, going the opposite direction. I thought of asking

him if I could suck his cock, but he gave me the finger and yelled,

"Plagiarizing bastard Jew scum!" After all the Jewish doctor's

reputations I had usurped and ruined, the man still yelled that! I

resolved to never go down on him, again, even if he were spectacularly

well-hung for such a little guy. The cocaine was wearing off, and I

suddenly felt depressed. As Freidrich disappeared around a corner, I

resolved to kill him and steal ALL his ideas, not just some of them,

as I had already done. The thoughts of plagiarism and other people's

ideas prompted me to go over to Fliess' house, where he was in the

fortuitous habit of leaving unfinished manuscripts laying open on his

desk. I hailed a cab and ordered him to find the location.


By the time I got to Wilhelm Fliess' home, it was late afternoon. I

barged in without knocking into a therapy session with Fliess and two

of his patients, boy and girl adolescents who were engaged in a 69'er

while Fliess pounded on his Smith-Corona with a manic intensity. "My

dear Dr. Voyde", he shouted over their noisy love-making and the

incessant clacking of keys, "I'm so glad you've come!"


"Nah", said I, "just breathing hard!"


We laughed over our oft-repeated little joke as he laid out some coke

and I fingered the boy's butthole.


"I'm working on my theory of universal bisexuality," Wilhelm told me

as we did up the cocaine and drank absinthe. "Fantastic!" I thought,

"more ideas to steal. Fliess is a fucking goldmine!"


We then ushered out the two grateful teenagers as we got naked

together and began attaching spiked metal devices to our bodies. Just

then, Sherlock Holmes and Josef Breuer, my former collaborator and

mentor, walked in together. Holmes immediately grabbed up a handful

of syringes from Fliess' open medicine cabinet, while Breuer took in

the scene, hands on hips and glaring menacingly.


"Still the reprobate, eh, DOCTOR Voyde," he sneered. "I still say

you're a clear-cut case of moral insanity, and this proves it. I saw

the two kids leaving. What did you do to them that had them smiling

and giggling like that?"


"Nothing you wouldn't have done if you weren't such a fucking prude!"

I rejoindered as I picked up a letter-opener from Fliess' desk.


Holmes pushed another needle into his penis and groaned with delight.

Fliess shoved a giant rubber dildo up his ass as Breuer took a seat

and watched, his eyes shining with poorly concealed delight. He

claimed to like women, but his glassy stare proved otherwise, the old

closet queen.


He continued to watch, perhaps not believing his eyes, as I slammed

the letter-opener into his heart. He died quickly, still sitting up

straight with his eyes open. It was an eerie sight, the remaining

three of us had to agree. Sherlock had used all the syringes in the

cabinet, before Fliess warned him about the ones loaded with arsenic

and cyanide. He and I laughed as Holmes died, too. The great

detective's farts and pissing his pants as he relaxed into death

caused Wilhelm and I to guffaw uncontrollably until we farted and

pissed on ourselves, also.


With tears of hilarity streaming down my face, I sucked Wilhelm's cock

until he came like wild dog, then I began to strangle him so I could

steal his manuscript on bisexuality. Perhaps it contained the teenage

boy's address and phone number. Before I succeeded in killing him,

however, I awoke from the dream, still sitting at the train station on

the unforgiving pew-like wooden bench. It was morning, the queers

were gone and the rush-hour trains were running. I resolved to find

Carl Jung and ask him for the meaning of all this as I left the

station. Perhaps he would make me wear panties and a bra, again!


Then, I would write a report on the progress of my research for Rev.

Stang, anxiously awaiting to hear from me in Dallas.

Copyfreely 1997 VoydeZone productions


Inspiration for this story came primarily from the book "Deadly Dr.

Freud", by Paul Scagnelli, Ph.D. Yes, it is a real book that you can

find and read.