Sextrap Dungeon: Book 1

by Kurt Knox

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  You eat the candy. Oh no, the trick done tricked you! The hooker’s a feeder — one of those freaky deeky fat fetishists — and now you’re trapped in an unbreakable psycho-sexual cycle. Candy bar follows candy bar follows candy bar. Follows candy bar. It doesn’t take long before you’re so fat people start asking what movie you’re going Method for. Even the small of your back turns massive. The only exercise you get now is popping all the chocolate out of your advent calendar in one sitting. You leave an impression alright…with each footstep! And so on and so on. THE END.

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  Sextrap Dungeon: Book 1, by Kurt Knox

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  But what about your fatal allergy to EpiPens? Oh well, too late to go back now — the needle’s in your thigh and pumping your system with a deadly dose of epinephrine. Your whole life flashes before your eyes, and it is impressively sexy, much like your tongue, which has swollen to the size of a damn moray eel. Unfortunately it has also choked you to death, which is most unsexy. GAME OVER.

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  Sextrap Dungeon: Book 1, by Kurt Knox

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  The kobold sticks you in the gut with his short sword. And that’s the last bit of penetration anyone’s getting in this story. GAME OVER.

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  Sextrap Dungeon: Book 1, by Kurt Knox

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  You open the chest. What’s this inside? It’s your infinite virginity! GAME OVER.

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  Sextrap Dungeon: Book 1, by Kurt Knox

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  Nice try, dorkshire pudding, but there’s no disguising what you are. GAME OVER.

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  Sextrap Dungeon: Book 1, by Kurt Knox

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  Have it your way, tough guy. You bleed out from your appalling wrist wounds. Then you get hit by a truck. Then a bird poops on you. After that your pants get stolen by a hobo and you’re left lying on the sidewalk, naked from the waist down. No one cleans you up. You’re there for days, everyone passing by, laughing at your little dead dick. How do you like that, you stool-headed gnome-fucker? GAME OVER.

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  Sextrap Dungeon: Book 1, by Kurt Knox

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  You do the sensible thing and call in the professionals. The sensible thing? In a story called Sextrap Dungeon?

  It goes without saying that a mechanical malfunction causes your cell phone to explode, turning your head into a raging ball of fire. You cry out in agony as your flesh melts and drips from your face like candlewax, killing you dead and utterly ruining your conspicuously white douchebag sneakers. GAME OVER.

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  Sextrap Dungeon: Book 1, by Kurt Knox

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  You’re a real charm farm, you know that? You toddle off whistling, happy with a job not done. Stepping into the road to cross the street, you notice the laces on one of your conspicuously white douchebag sneakers is undone. Bending over to tie it, you fail to spot a speeding ice cream truck barrelling towards you. The driver slams on the brakes, coming to a halt just in time but dislodging a fibreglass snow cone on the truck’s roof. The cone sails through the air before hitting you in the chest, puncturing your ribcage and lancing you like the boil you are. Death from shock and blood loss is almost instantaneous. GAME OVER.

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  Sextrap Dungeon: Book 1, by Kurt Knox

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  You kiss each of your biceps (one for “Biggie” and one for “Tupac”), put on your mad face and go at the mega-cat, fists swinging. Ain’t no fused-together feline gonna stop you cherishing that honey’s ass.

  You grab the cat by the ears and land a head-butt clean on its snout. Boom. Pussy goes down and you make for the kill, ghetto stompin’ that sucker’s head flat.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ yells a voice.

  It’s the cat lady, stood in the doorway with a face like she saw a ghost and that ghost told her she had cancer. You point to the ground at the body of your opponent, but the mega-cat is gone, replaced by the shredded remains of a potted rubber plant. You look down at your fists and see a leaf clenched in each hand, the ‘ears’ of the hallucination you were just beating on. You done went and lost your damn mind!

  Your knees crumble and you curl up in the corner of the room, catatonic (pun not intended and yet still apologized for). The shocked lady makes a couple of phone calls and not long after that the authorities stop by. A woman with a severe haircut gives you a special pill to take that help you relax. After that you’re driven to a psychiatric unit. You don’t put up a fight. They take away your shoes and your belt and put you in a pair of slippers and some most unsexy non-silk pajamas. You spend the rest of your days in a drug-induced stupor, surrounded by lunatics, rocking back and forth in front of a TV drinking instant coffee, waiting to die. GAME OVER.

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  Sextrap Dungeon: Book 1, by Kurt Knox

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  You step inside the caravan. Immediately the door is slammed behind you and bolted from the other side. You bang your fists and scream but the only attention you get is from the slumbering beast lying in a pile of straw across the other end of the caravan. It’s a lion! The beat comes padding towards you, licking his lips in anticipation of his next meal. Turns out you were the dinner all along. Playa got played. GAME
OVER.

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  Sextrap Dungeon: Book 1, by Kurt Knox

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  The circus honey is most not happy. Outraged by your dis, she signals to her carny crew, who surround you and seize your arms. You choose not to use your Kung Fu skills to defend yourself as your fists are registered weapons and you will not risk jail time with so many fine women in this world yet to be brought to heights of ecstasy they never imagined possible.

  The carnies drag you over to a circus cannon and load you face-first into the barrel. What happens next is exactly as you expect. There’s a midget at the bottom of the cannon and he eats your face off. GAME OVER.

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  Sextrap Dungeon: Book 1, by Kurt Knox

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  You grab that dinosauce by the haunches and go at her like you know she wants it. Only it ain’t no raptor — it’s nothing but a robot in latex. You’re not in prehistoric times at all, you’re on the set of beloved motion picture, Jurassic Park!

  ‘What the hell are you doing to my velociraptor?’ yells a voice.

  It’s Steven fricking Spielberg and he’s all mad face. Jeff Goldblum’s there too, twitching like a motherfucker. Sam Neill just about shits. Spielberg tosses down his big Director megaphone.

  ‘Strike the set, I’m cancelling the production!’

  You’ve sexually assaulted an animatronic dinosaur and ruined a modern day cinematic masterpiece! GAME OVER.

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  Sextrap Dungeon: Book 1, by Kurt Knox

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  Good call, playa, ‘cause it turns out you’re not in prehistoric times at all but on the set of beloved motion picture, Jurassic Park!

  Steven Spielberg thanks you for not jamming your junk in his animatronic dinosaur and Jeff Goldblum gives you a high five that you will take to your grave. Sam Neill just about shits.

  You’re marooned in the early Nineties obviously, so you have to wait around a while to get back to where you started, but eventually the years catch up and you’re back on campus with that fine science honey, older, wiser and still with a dick like a damn baby’s arm.

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  A DAMN BABY'S ARM.

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  Sextrap Dungeon: Book 1, by Kurt Knox

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  You spit game on that ferrous female.

  ‘Baby, you must have a computer virus, ‘cause I wanna stick you straight in the spam folder.’

  Regrettably, the robot mistakes your wordplay as a threat to her mainframe and bugs the fuck out. Lasers fire out of her metal titties and cut you in half, fatality style. You schmooze, you lose. GAME OVER.

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  Sextrap Dungeon: Book 1, by Kurt Knox

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  The ladybot responds to the direct approach. She takes your plasma cannon in her exhaust port like a goddamn porn star death star and you explode all up in her business. It’s the perfect ending… isn’t it? Trapped in the future with a soulless automaton; everything you ever knew, long since turned to dust. Your homies, dead. Your fam, dead. The whole freaking human race, dead. You pour a forty and let loose a manly tear. This one’s for you, The World. THE END.

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  Sextrap Dungeon: Book 1, by Kurt Knox

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  You’re about to release your trouser snout and take the lab honey to an unknown plateau of lovemaking when a gust of wind from an open window blows off your trusty do-rag. When the honey sees the ink on your forehead she straight-up freaks.

  ‘Your face is a hate crime!’ she yells, showering you with test tubes and beakers and one of those round balls with the electricity in that Frankenstein has.

  You were so close! Inches from the finish line, and now you’re out of the race!

  On the way back to your crib a chill draws in and you begin to cry. Your eyes wet with sadness, you fail to see a pothole in the sidewalk and take a spill. A second later you are dead, your brain punctured by an icicle of your own frozen tears. Congratulations, homes, you just made life’s blooper reel. GAME OVER.