April: Brigit's Flame, WK 2
PROMPT: Happy as a Clam
Warnings: dirty language, violence
This is what happened when I teleported Ash the Douchebag, my Dungeons and Dragons character into a 'modern' alternative reality.
Zombieporn (part 1)
Pleased to meet you. My name is Ash, and I am a douchebag.
Or rather the Douchebag. That's the glorious title I'd earned back in high school and that had become practically my surname: Ash-the-Douchebag, that gambling sonofabitch, that perverted gutter bastard in his smelly old clothes and with a thieving look in his eyes. Or so I heard. Since then it kind of stuck, sometimes alternating with the Sleaze. But I don't mind. I learned that a little bit of a rep goes a long long way for a no-good uglyass whitetrash motherfucker such as yours truly. I'm skinny and greasy and sour. I smoke like a chimney and shower once a week...on a good week. I'm not a vegetarian, and I don't vote. I drive a filthy 1991 civic I bought used from one of those racer-on-a budget types. I dry my laundry in the fucking microwave and masturbate religiously. I've got no education, asides from some electronics and machining classes I took at a local community college, mainly to palm their equipment. Nor do I want one. However I am handy, and if you need some odd shit done...say you need to arrange a push for a lot of laptops oddly devoid of serial numbers, or you wanna bug you local church's confessional booth 'cause you wanna get to the bottom of your husband's guilty behavior, or you need a guy to set up sound equipment for a low-budget porno...well then I am at your service!
Well...at least that's how it used to be.
I sigh, sitting down on the steps of a convenience store offa route 23. It is a hot and humid Missouri summer. I pop open a bag of Funions and take a swig of a Colt.
Then, I spit juicily and think of my predicament.
And also of what my late grand-uncle, the one that fucked up my eye used to say: “sonny, every sonnabitch knows even a rep is only good in moderation.” Well, it's really all because I wanted to bone this asian chick, but let's just say my moderation gauge...malfunctioned. And now a very...odd...epidemic is ravaging Los Angeles, and my face graces most every convenience store in the nation underneath a big “WANTED” sign. It reads 'Wanted for arraignment in association with the LA epidemic: Ash Gregory Kleines, caucasian male, age 24, height 5'10, slim build, dark shoulder-length hair, brown eyes. Speaks with a lisp, and has cataract in left eye. Last seen wearing a plaid blue button-down shirt and blue jeans. Suspect believed to be armed and dangerous.'
Whoopsie...
* * *
It all happened the day Peanut-Butter-Jelly-Time internet cafe opened next door to Joe's Dogs on Hamville avenue. At the time odd jobs had run dry, and my pirated dvd and various internet porn service sales withered under the force of Pirate Bay. Anyhow, that day found me at the place of my newfound employment. I stood in front of Joe's dressed into a giant hotdog with a leering smile made out of foam and an absurd top hat. I was swaying back in forth, sweltering in my smelly suit and pair of pink tights and calling out “happy hour 'till five, get one dog second free...” in a tortured monotone. I know, I know it sounds awful, but I kind of liked hot-dog duty. I was always there when the local catholic school let out, and well, let's just say as a giant frankfurt I was at liberty to be much more forward with The Ladies. And the chicks loved me, always calling “hey mister hot-dog,” and “nice meat!” and “mmmm, beefy!” as they walked on by in their cute little uniforms.
At any rate, that day I was happy as a clam, since in true spirit of entrepreneurship I was able to, whatsitcalled, carpe diem...When making the flyers last night for 'Ol Joe, I snuck in a stylized pic of a very bodacious nude female fox, and a few lines of text promoting a 'today only: buy-one-get-one-free' deal for my 'porno-in-your-inbox' email service in the hopes that PB&J's customers would now be doing a lot more than watching shitty flash videos and browsing facebook.
The grand opening was going full blast next door, and amidst balloons and the free internet access and whatever else was part of PBJT's festivities, there was a Giant Banana in a violently yellow suit, thrashing and yellin'...well...you guessed it:: “It's peanut butter jelly time, jelly time, etcetera.” I developed a tic in my left eye after about a half an hour of listening to this bug-eyed bastard screeching. Hence, I was already very wrought up by the time the bastard inside the suit decided to give me hell about flyering his customers.
Well, after he got on my case, getting very audacious with his vocabulary from within the safety of his suit push very quickly came to shove. After his foot collided with my balls and a chair was broken over his head we collided in a snarling ball of yellow and brown foam, throwing punches from within our padded suits and rolling out onto the street.
I guess it isn't every day that you watch a hotdog fight a banana and a crowd of at least 50 onlookers fully took advantage of the opportunity, making no move to stop the fight.
I came to lying in a whole puddle of my own blood and porno flyers. I had been de-masked, and someone was slapping my face to bring me round. Faces swam in and out, but a particular angry one belonging to my boss told me I was fired. Fighting vertigo I dragged myself to my feet and hobbled into the hotdog shop to grab my shit and get out. I changed into my usual jeans, boots, and dirty flannel button-down that I didn't bother to button over my chest. I was getting ice out of the soda machine for my left eye that had swollen completely shut, when Joe came back in.
“Some advertising, boy!” came Joe's shaky old-man voice from behind the counter. “You owe me eighty bucks for the suit.”
“You know what,” I spat, “you don't need a new suit, old man. 'Cause hotdogs are shit!”
I hurling my balled up pink tights at him as I marched past the trash cans and out the back door.
The walk home sucked. I navigated the backstreets home in a rather forlorn mood, spitting blood, simmering in the humiliation of getting my ass handed to me by a giant banana, and meditating on the general suckiness of my life. I was only a block or two from home, thinking of how I really needed to find a new town, and smoking a cig when a slightly sarcastic voice sounded from a side alley:
“I presume you're now looking for a job?”
It was just beginning to get dark. The speaker was an asian woman, maybe in her thirties. She looked rather stylish and rather odd standing in a dark and dirty side street that faced the back of a wholesale grocery store and a hardware shop. What was more odd was that she was flanked by two beefy grunts with stone faces. One look at them made you wonder how many weapons they had on them.
I gave the trio a long suspicious look, and was silent for a second before continuing.
“What I'm looking for, lady, is the bottle of Jack in my kitchen drawer. And by the looks of you...you're obviously lost. There ain't no shopping mall in this neighborhood.”
“Actually I found exactly what I'm looking for,” she raised an eyebrow. “I believe I have a job offer that would perfectly suit the both of us.”
Interesting. I brushed my hair out of my face and shifted the ice bag into the other hand, studying the strange woman. I decided to stay on the side of caution and milk for information:
“Oh yeah? I dunno about that lady. I'm kind of thinking of being unemployed for a tad. I'm sure you understand.”
She grimaced:
“The job involves loading, driving, and unloading... a certain truck. Ten thousand dollars for the trip, with possibility of a more permanent working relationship.”
“Forget it. I don't run drugs.” I turned to go. She gave me an ironic smile.
“It isn't drugs.”
I chuckled:
“Yeah? What's in the truck, dead babies?” She rolled her eyes and stared at me for a second.
“Let me tell you something Mr. Kleines. This job involves a certain level of...trust between the employer and contractor. How about we continue this conversation over, ah what was it? Jack.”
I scoffed:
“Are you inviting yourself to my house?”
She suddenly looked tired of this conversation.
“We know where you live anyway.”
I looked at the two thugs, suddenly wondering whether I really even had a choice. I felt adrenaline tingling my nerve endings. I stood silent for a second, and then realized I liked it:
“I believe I have enough for three.”
TO BE CONTINUED
Warnings: dirty language, violence
This is what happened when I teleported Ash the Douchebag, my Dungeons and Dragons character into a 'modern' alternative reality.
Zombieporn (part 1)
Pleased to meet you. My name is Ash, and I am a douchebag.
Or rather the Douchebag. That's the glorious title I'd earned back in high school and that had become practically my surname: Ash-the-Douchebag, that gambling sonofabitch, that perverted gutter bastard in his smelly old clothes and with a thieving look in his eyes. Or so I heard. Since then it kind of stuck, sometimes alternating with the Sleaze. But I don't mind. I learned that a little bit of a rep goes a long long way for a no-good uglyass whitetrash motherfucker such as yours truly. I'm skinny and greasy and sour. I smoke like a chimney and shower once a week...on a good week. I'm not a vegetarian, and I don't vote. I drive a filthy 1991 civic I bought used from one of those racer-on-a budget types. I dry my laundry in the fucking microwave and masturbate religiously. I've got no education, asides from some electronics and machining classes I took at a local community college, mainly to palm their equipment. Nor do I want one. However I am handy, and if you need some odd shit done...say you need to arrange a push for a lot of laptops oddly devoid of serial numbers, or you wanna bug you local church's confessional booth 'cause you wanna get to the bottom of your husband's guilty behavior, or you need a guy to set up sound equipment for a low-budget porno...well then I am at your service!
Well...at least that's how it used to be.
I sigh, sitting down on the steps of a convenience store offa route 23. It is a hot and humid Missouri summer. I pop open a bag of Funions and take a swig of a Colt.
Then, I spit juicily and think of my predicament.
And also of what my late grand-uncle, the one that fucked up my eye used to say: “sonny, every sonnabitch knows even a rep is only good in moderation.” Well, it's really all because I wanted to bone this asian chick, but let's just say my moderation gauge...malfunctioned. And now a very...odd...epidemic is ravaging Los Angeles, and my face graces most every convenience store in the nation underneath a big “WANTED” sign. It reads 'Wanted for arraignment in association with the LA epidemic: Ash Gregory Kleines, caucasian male, age 24, height 5'10, slim build, dark shoulder-length hair, brown eyes. Speaks with a lisp, and has cataract in left eye. Last seen wearing a plaid blue button-down shirt and blue jeans. Suspect believed to be armed and dangerous.'
Whoopsie...
* * *
It all happened the day Peanut-Butter-Jelly-Time internet cafe opened next door to Joe's Dogs on Hamville avenue. At the time odd jobs had run dry, and my pirated dvd and various internet porn service sales withered under the force of Pirate Bay. Anyhow, that day found me at the place of my newfound employment. I stood in front of Joe's dressed into a giant hotdog with a leering smile made out of foam and an absurd top hat. I was swaying back in forth, sweltering in my smelly suit and pair of pink tights and calling out “happy hour 'till five, get one dog second free...” in a tortured monotone. I know, I know it sounds awful, but I kind of liked hot-dog duty. I was always there when the local catholic school let out, and well, let's just say as a giant frankfurt I was at liberty to be much more forward with The Ladies. And the chicks loved me, always calling “hey mister hot-dog,” and “nice meat!” and “mmmm, beefy!” as they walked on by in their cute little uniforms.
At any rate, that day I was happy as a clam, since in true spirit of entrepreneurship I was able to, whatsitcalled, carpe diem...When making the flyers last night for 'Ol Joe, I snuck in a stylized pic of a very bodacious nude female fox, and a few lines of text promoting a 'today only: buy-one-get-one-free' deal for my 'porno-in-your-inbox' email service in the hopes that PB&J's customers would now be doing a lot more than watching shitty flash videos and browsing facebook.
The grand opening was going full blast next door, and amidst balloons and the free internet access and whatever else was part of PBJT's festivities, there was a Giant Banana in a violently yellow suit, thrashing and yellin'...well...you guessed it:: “It's peanut butter jelly time, jelly time, etcetera.” I developed a tic in my left eye after about a half an hour of listening to this bug-eyed bastard screeching. Hence, I was already very wrought up by the time the bastard inside the suit decided to give me hell about flyering his customers.
Well, after he got on my case, getting very audacious with his vocabulary from within the safety of his suit push very quickly came to shove. After his foot collided with my balls and a chair was broken over his head we collided in a snarling ball of yellow and brown foam, throwing punches from within our padded suits and rolling out onto the street.
I guess it isn't every day that you watch a hotdog fight a banana and a crowd of at least 50 onlookers fully took advantage of the opportunity, making no move to stop the fight.
I came to lying in a whole puddle of my own blood and porno flyers. I had been de-masked, and someone was slapping my face to bring me round. Faces swam in and out, but a particular angry one belonging to my boss told me I was fired. Fighting vertigo I dragged myself to my feet and hobbled into the hotdog shop to grab my shit and get out. I changed into my usual jeans, boots, and dirty flannel button-down that I didn't bother to button over my chest. I was getting ice out of the soda machine for my left eye that had swollen completely shut, when Joe came back in.
“Some advertising, boy!” came Joe's shaky old-man voice from behind the counter. “You owe me eighty bucks for the suit.”
“You know what,” I spat, “you don't need a new suit, old man. 'Cause hotdogs are shit!”
I hurling my balled up pink tights at him as I marched past the trash cans and out the back door.
The walk home sucked. I navigated the backstreets home in a rather forlorn mood, spitting blood, simmering in the humiliation of getting my ass handed to me by a giant banana, and meditating on the general suckiness of my life. I was only a block or two from home, thinking of how I really needed to find a new town, and smoking a cig when a slightly sarcastic voice sounded from a side alley:
“I presume you're now looking for a job?”
It was just beginning to get dark. The speaker was an asian woman, maybe in her thirties. She looked rather stylish and rather odd standing in a dark and dirty side street that faced the back of a wholesale grocery store and a hardware shop. What was more odd was that she was flanked by two beefy grunts with stone faces. One look at them made you wonder how many weapons they had on them.
I gave the trio a long suspicious look, and was silent for a second before continuing.
“What I'm looking for, lady, is the bottle of Jack in my kitchen drawer. And by the looks of you...you're obviously lost. There ain't no shopping mall in this neighborhood.”
“Actually I found exactly what I'm looking for,” she raised an eyebrow. “I believe I have a job offer that would perfectly suit the both of us.”
Interesting. I brushed my hair out of my face and shifted the ice bag into the other hand, studying the strange woman. I decided to stay on the side of caution and milk for information:
“Oh yeah? I dunno about that lady. I'm kind of thinking of being unemployed for a tad. I'm sure you understand.”
She grimaced:
“The job involves loading, driving, and unloading... a certain truck. Ten thousand dollars for the trip, with possibility of a more permanent working relationship.”
“Forget it. I don't run drugs.” I turned to go. She gave me an ironic smile.
“It isn't drugs.”
I chuckled:
“Yeah? What's in the truck, dead babies?” She rolled her eyes and stared at me for a second.
“Let me tell you something Mr. Kleines. This job involves a certain level of...trust between the employer and contractor. How about we continue this conversation over, ah what was it? Jack.”
I scoffed:
“Are you inviting yourself to my house?”
She suddenly looked tired of this conversation.
“We know where you live anyway.”
I looked at the two thugs, suddenly wondering whether I really even had a choice. I felt adrenaline tingling my nerve endings. I stood silent for a second, and then realized I liked it:
“I believe I have enough for three.”
TO BE CONTINUED