The Final Flight of Cher by Mame Bougouma Diene

To Meghan B. Chadonic, whose brilliance outshines mine, that is to say, she´s the brilliant one.


Cher had made it possible. It was unbelievable, but there you had it. Space Travel. Cher. The only catch was: she’d be streaming out your asshole.

Do you believe …life…after luuuuuv!

Europa trembled under the decibels blasting out of my rectum and sending me on the path to Uranus.

I never thought that one day, reaching Uranus with my anus would be possible. But I had believed in Cher, and now it was real.

I used to be a metal head, and then a hardcore techno head, but all the ecstasy and LSD in the world had only made me paranoid with a limp biscuit. I mean dick. A limp dick.

“Yo, check out her knockers, bro.”

“Who? Professor C?”

“Na, douche face. Selena, man.”

“Oh hell yeah, those are some titties right there.”

They were. Glorious. Glorious tits. The boobs of an angel. She had the face of a pitbull but James would bang anything anyway. I was into her tits. And as I stood there staring while Professor Chadonic taught away about rocket science in her sweet voice and beautiful green eyes, I just sat there, day dreaming about giant boobs floating in space, embracing me as I flew closer, closing in on me with a soft velvety touch and a promise of sweaty oblivion.

“Leon!” Pr. Chadonic´s voice suddenly all business bore down on me from the front of the class, “Stop staring at Selena for the last time, and focus!”

Everybody laughed. Including James. Especially James. Actually everybody except Selena who positively beamed, and doing so looked like a frog with a flashlight caught in its throat.

“But I…”

“You wanna lie now?” Professor C snapped, throwing a green bit of chalk between my eyes with MLB precision. “I´m done with you. You might as well forget rocket science, you´ll never amount to nothing.”

Nothing? No, that wasn’t true. I wasn’t the best student out there, but I heard every word she said. I wasn’t the best student but that had never proven anything. I figured, fuck it.

“Nothing? Nothing?!” I had stood from my chair, all seventeen years and six foot seven of me and stared her down, while Selena drooled. “I won’t be nothing. I´ll be the first man to reach the Oort Cloud.” Everybody laughed, even Professor C had smirked. “I will do it. With Cher streaming out my asshole!”

Professor Chadonic went green in the face, the same color as the chalk pigmented with freckles.

“Out your….How dare you disrespect Cher?! You ignorant little tool. Cher is a goddess. Cher glides with the grace of an ovulating swan and the purity of the Virgin Mary! To the principal with you!”

I left the room, but I never made it to the principal’s office. I stepped out of school and never looked back. I also ended up banging Selena. True story.

You see, you have to think of it, not in terms of music per se, but in chords. Chords and Quantum. Mostly Quantum. Any chord will do, but I had challenged the entire school through professor Chadonic, and social networks being what they were in 2178, the news had gone around the book of face in less than a nanosecond. Less time than I had needed to cum on Selena’s gorgeous tits. I was backed up. And those tits were gorgeous.

It had also launched a Cher revival amongst teenagers. The statue of Cherity standing in the New York Space Harbor had been lit with multicolor rays, fireworks had been shot, and a tribute performance of all her old classics including the infamous Sonny Bono´s had been sung from Mexico City to Katmandu in homage to the goddess that she was.

To me she was fuel. Rectal fuel and nothing more. They would see. They would all see. But most importantly they would hear. Hear me all the way from the Oort Cloud.




I switched tracks, pressing the neuro-rectal quantum transmitter in my left testicle.

I…you babe…I got…babe

A milder mellower tune, but it worked the same. It might have worked better. It didn’t matter. It loaded my intestines with Cher gas and it propelled me forward at even greater velocities into the Kuiper Belt. I saw Saturn flash by and disappear behind me, and in the distance, riding a blast of sixties pop, I penetrated the asteroid belt and landed on a comet.

I felt good. So good. So full of Cher. So full of life, love, grace and class.

I realize now that to some of you reading this for the first time, might wonder: how in the fuck did Cher get so big?

Roy Rogers. Pop tarts and maple syrup, just drinking the grease straight out of the fry basket. Cher had melted down. She had lost herself in the fame and the glory.

It was the early 21st century and the transsexual revolution had pushed her from an icon to a goddess. There were Chers everywhere. Men would undergo back-alley surgeries, throwing their penises away to get closer to her essence. There were black Chers, Chinese Chers, Mexicano-Sri Lankan mixed race Chers who through some luck of genetics looked Mexican to Mexicans and Sri-Lankan to Sri Lankans (true story). Women who weren’t tall enough would have stilettos implanted into the soles of their feet to reach her amazonic height. Boobs had never been bigger and faker.

The world would be Cher as Cher was the world.

Maybe it was a miracle of light, maybe it was just an error in my senses that had allowed me to perceive it, but enough Cher sung, performed or blasted from hover car radios at the same time had thinned the fabric of reality.

Most didn’t notice it, it was imperceptible, but it was real. Like the Legend of Jeb Bush, it was real. There would be a distortion and a downpour of happiness from the farthest regions of Quantum, a crack in the universe larger than Cher´s ass had ever been, farting love and joy and titty rubbing across the world. Glorious and gorgeous. Just like Selena´s tits.

I knew that it could be channeled; I just didn’t realize then, that it had to be through my butt.

Anyway, back to the lab. Selena´s gorgeous boobs covered in semen. Her face looking like someone had cloned Leatherface´s mask and tattooed it on their own face with a prison single needle. Such boobs. Epic. Epic boobs.

The equation was simple. Obvious once you´d figured it out: (C6H8O7 + PAcP; E.C. + Ca+ Na+K + Protoeolytic Enzymes + Fibrolysin + Sugar+ Corn Syrup+ Hydrogenated Palm Kernel Oil+ Apple Juice from Concentrate + Dextrin + Modified Corn Starch + Natural and Artificial Flavor+ Yellow 6 Lake+ Red 40 Lake+ Yellow 5 Lake + Blue 2 Lake+ Yellow 5+ Red 40+Yellow 6+ Blue 1 Lake+ Blue 1+ Ascorbic Acid + Dance Hit Song Prediction Algorithm) CHER² = Space Fuel.

In laymen terms: Sperm + Skittles + generic pop music multiplied by CHER²= Space Fuel.
And just like that, I had the formula for the pill. It was all over Selena´s tits. It was in packets lying around the floor all the time; it was on the air waves. The pill that would allow me to conquer Space. The pill that would allow me to channel Cher and play her with my nut sack. One glorious tune at a time and into the future.

…That’s not the way…Listenin´ to what I say…Loves you so…his kiss…That’s where it is!

The asteroid collapsed into space dust under the pressure of my farting shoop shoops.

They hadn´t believed me. No one had. But I had left the world behind, drowning it in one bowel roll of thunder of gas and glory and Cher.

Good Cher where am I?

I got so caught up in recording this story in my colon´s microphone that I have lost track of space. Lost track of time. Of speed. Of the limits of my hubris. And there, closing in on me, with no way to slow down, no way to break, is Proxima Centauri, the red dwarf of Centaurus waiting to swallow me whole, like Selena´s giant space boobs so many months ago in my high school daydreams. Me and my Cher-streaming butt hole.

If I could turn back time…find a way… take back those words…and you’d stay…I don’t know why I did the things I did… why I said the things I said.

Cher´s wisdom rings truer than ever as the heat of the star slowly melts the wayward strains of my mop under my helmet, leaking molten glass over my eyes and face. Cher, the ovulating swan, Cher the Dark Lady, Cher, the transgender queen of love. And as I am blinded to the light, her words fading with my consciousness, I see the boobs that started it all. Selena´s gorgeous, gorgeous, tits.

Cher bless you all. Leon Pierre Diene, out. Out with a Bang Bang.


Mame Bougouma Diene is a French-Senegalese American humanitarian living in Brookyn New York. He has a fondness for progressive metal, tattoos and policy analysis. He is published in Omenana, Brittle Paper, Short Story Day Africa, Edilivres (French), AfroSFv2 (Storytime), Myriad Lands (Guardbridge Books), and has stories upcoming with New English Press, Fox Spirit and Galaxies Magazine (French).