Here are 3 short stories for your perusal. The first and third ones were lucky enough to make it onto Pork Pony, though they are somewhat disturbing, so viewer discretion advised for them. The middle one was written sometime between the death of PP and the birth of Unloosen. Ever notice how short my short stories are? I simultaneously rule and suck. Enjoy!
DRINK YOUR ASSHOLE
"Drink your Asshole, Bobby!" Mother directs, with both compassion and authority. Bobby fidgets in a chair that is so big, it almost swallows him whole. "I don't want to! It looks yucky!" He closes a tungsten-plated zipper, securing his lips together, while shaking his head from side to side in a minor tantrum. Bobby stares at his glass of Asshole with fear, anticipating that it will come to life and attack his young, cotton candy soul. But the orange and green plaid-patterned liquid is well behaved, confined to its conical glass prison.
"Oh, don't be such a stubborn bunny, my little fascist. Its good for you", Mother sings while putting the finishing touches on her tattoo of a spider web. "Its full of electric vitamins and the gooey power of Marxism. And flavored with malt chocolate from the ethereal plane, it will make you big and strong. You want to be big and strong, don't you, Bobby?"
Bobby moves his lips erratically overtop the teeth of his zipper, weighing Mother's words upon the maladjusted scale in his mind. He is unsure of what to do, for his scale needs calibrating. Mother flutters behind Bobby, and bends over at a perfect ninety degrees to rest her apple chin upon his shoulders. She delicately unzips his mouth with weightless force and a ton of love. "Here, sunshine of Armageddon, do as I say." Mother seductively slants her head and presses two cirrus clouds against the region of uncallused skin behind Bobby's left ear. Bobby tentatively grabs hold of the drink, and rolls it between his hands, prolonging the simple task of breakfast.
Mother breaks her hypotenuse and floats out of the basement, stopping at the bottom of the steps. "I'll be upstairs shaving my legs, my sugary threat. I'm going to have lots of sex this afternoon. And Bobby, I pray to Baal that you finish all of your Asshole before I come back down here", she intones with a flowery hint of sternness.
Staring at the ceiling, Bobby resists the temptation to discard the beverage into the furnace, for the scent of burning frankincense will most certainly tattle on him. He realizes that there is no other option than to move forth and consume. Raising the glass upward and tilting the narrow spout towards his mouth, the liquid inside is reluctant to move, stationary like turbid sediment. Bobby is further defeated in knowing now that he must force the drink into his body, which would give the appearance that he is gluttonous for Asshole. He seals his metallic lips over the glass and pounds at its bottom while nursing the contents into his system. Streaks of orange and green dribble down the sides of his mouth and chin once the glass is emptied. The once colorful liquid dries a dark brown, and the perfume scent has vanished, replaced with the aroma of fecal matter.
Tears of onion juice slightly well up in the corners of Bobby's eyes, but evaporate readily with rapid blinking and pride. Bobby does not feel physically stronger, or big, for that matter, as most children believe that most results are bound to be immediate. He does, however, have a vision.
For but an instant, Bobby sees himself standing tall upon a grassy rampart, overlooking a vast field of tortured nature. Innumerable warriors are rushing towards his rampart, howling and demanding his now fortified soul. Bobby holds his aggressive position, and the rush within his body is demanding confrontation. The vision fades, and Bobby is once again joined by Mother.
Elated to see the emptied glass, and the crispy patches of brown on Bobby's face, Mother smiles from eye to eye. "That's my boy. I love you." Mother then runs the talon of her right thumb across the shoulder of her shirtless son, drawing out a tiny bead of blood. Mother kisses the fresh wound, wiping clean the exposed blood with her lips. "I love you THAT much."
The best way to obtain anything in life and become anything in life is to know more karate than others. If it is you, another guy and the last slice of pizza, you find out his level of mastery, and pray like hell you have a superior color of belt around your waist. In fact, wear your belt everywhere you go, with whatever you are wearing. Everyone who knows karate should do this, just to make things easier. Because a yellow belt has never defeated a green belt in the entire history of the world and karate documents prove this.
For instance, in applying for a job, it is paramount you mention any and all karate skills you possess in the interview if you haven't already pumped up the font and bold-faced your achievements in the dojo underneath your name on the resume itself. Stretch before the interview, for any savvy interviewer worth his salt will put you to the test firsthand. Remember, he is NOT your sensei, but show him the respect he deserves, and display your finest katas and the job will be yours. Be sure to holler the name of your dojo both before and after your routine, just so the interviewer knows where you trained. By the week's end, you will most assuredly be running a Fortune 500 company or piloting the latest in crop-dusting aeronautic technology.
Since most machines do not know karate, you will be able to control them at will. Wrist watches often set themselves to the correct time when strapped around the wrist of one trained in karate. To test this, buy a Swiss watch, for nothing Swiss has ever learned karate. Next, learn karate; any amount will do. Then walk into another time zone (even Mountain Time will work) and watch the hands on the watch's face bend and set to the correct time. Know karate, and that tranny will never need fixing again, too.
So now you know that karate will grant you anything you desire. Don't limit yourself to watches and job placement, however. The world is your plank of pinewood. Smash through it with a balled fist of karate and you will succeed at everything.
She had the kind of smile you can only get from years of chewing on rocks. She had prison tattoos. Her family album consisted of a stack of milk carton sides with the pictures of her runaway brothers and abducted sisters. She placed them under the corner of the stove to keep it level.
What makes a woman attractive? I notice subtleties. The way they stand. They way they sneeze. The way pieces of their hair fall over their eyes when they tilt their head to check their watch.
With her, I could not say for sure what it was. It was everything and nothing, I suppose.
We had fun together. Even though she was illiterate, we played Scrabble. I used to repeatedly punch her in the ass while she gobbled marbles off of the floor (we couldn't afford Hungry Hungry Hippos). They were just smooth rocks to her.
I still buy milk every week to look for her.