In Which I Write Something...
Hey. Part of the Serge story just wrote itself in my head. I think.
---
I woke up next to a dead dog this morning. I pray to God I wasn’t the one who killed it, on account of it seems to have been fucked to death.
It’s probably a warning from the landlord that I’m three months behind on my rent. Little does he know that he’s just fed me for the next six meals, bare minimum.
My ass itches, which means I have to go to court today. My wife is suing to up the alimony I pay her. She claims that since she’s joined the Cult of the Sexless God, her monetary situation is going to degrade, both because people will discriminate against her and because she won’t be able to have a relationship with another human being ever again.
I’m calling my lawyer in for this case, not because I need him, but because I want him there when I pull down my ex’s pants to see if she’s really got that SafEpoxy Seal over her yet. My lawyer, he’s got a little camera instead of a left eye. If that woman still has the Temporary Temptation Tarpaulin over her, I’m in the clear. If not, well, I can make a few bucks selling shots to the Webernet. SG cultists never pose nude and, wouldntcha know it, but that makes some men want them even more. I know there’s a fetish for everything, but a person you can’t stick it in (or let them stick it in you, the men no longer having penises) and who’ve been brainwashed to clamp down their teeth on anything that isn’t actual food…well, that there’s not my kinda fucked-up.
The Emperor turns 77 today, which means free and beautiful sex on every channel tonight. The ceremonies will also be projected onto every available wall over two stories tall. Everywhere tonight, people getting off on him getting off on people getting off. Orgasms all around! If I go out on the street after dark, I’ll find somebody looking for a partner for the big event. I don’t want a partner, though. I want a goddamned job.
The court put a little chip in my head twenty-six months ago that killed my only marketable skills: my years of training as a ninja assassin. Now I’m lucky if I can squat to shit without throwing a disc. The one time the court actually busts me, it’s for something I didn’t do. Figures.
Somebody knocks on my door like they mean it. I don’t bother to put on a shirt. Or pants. I take a look through the peephole and see two men in bright blue suits, wearing those weird Blue Blocker sunglasses. They’re both smiling wide enough for me to count their teeth.
“Mr. Corrie?” says the one in front, who’s about a head shorter than me and two shorter than his buddy.
“Unless you’ve brought me free booze or loose women, then no.”
He gives me a weird little look, keeps smiling as he presses a button on his lapel that says “Kiss me, you’re Irish” and suddenly I smell smoke. I whip my head around for a bit, seeing if anything’s on fire, before I realize that it’s me. The back on my head is smoldering and suddenly it hurts like a dozen wasps just stung my brain.
“FUCK!”
“Mr. Corrie?”
I look through the little fisheye lense, to see if they’re flashing federal badges or something, and it hits me; I realize I know exactly how to strike my peephole to send the metal rim through the tall guy’s skull, and where and how hard to kick my shitty door to break through and fracture the little guy’s pelvis.
He just burned out the anti-ninja device. I do a silent little jig on my creaky floor in celebration. It doesn’t make a sound.
“Now, then. May we come in?”
“Mister, you can have my precious anal virginity. Door’s unlocked, lemme get us some beers…”
Gotta go. Officiating a wedding tomorrow.
benjamin sTone
Current Music: Django Reinhardt, "Marie"
Last Book I Read: Post Office, Charles Bukowski (thanks man_size and digitante, it was great)
Last Movie: Land of the Dead (2005, Romero, zombies, USA)
Next Movie: Green Snake (1993, Tsui Hark, demons and ghosts and kung fu, HK)
---
I woke up next to a dead dog this morning. I pray to God I wasn’t the one who killed it, on account of it seems to have been fucked to death.
It’s probably a warning from the landlord that I’m three months behind on my rent. Little does he know that he’s just fed me for the next six meals, bare minimum.
My ass itches, which means I have to go to court today. My wife is suing to up the alimony I pay her. She claims that since she’s joined the Cult of the Sexless God, her monetary situation is going to degrade, both because people will discriminate against her and because she won’t be able to have a relationship with another human being ever again.
I’m calling my lawyer in for this case, not because I need him, but because I want him there when I pull down my ex’s pants to see if she’s really got that SafEpoxy Seal over her yet. My lawyer, he’s got a little camera instead of a left eye. If that woman still has the Temporary Temptation Tarpaulin over her, I’m in the clear. If not, well, I can make a few bucks selling shots to the Webernet. SG cultists never pose nude and, wouldntcha know it, but that makes some men want them even more. I know there’s a fetish for everything, but a person you can’t stick it in (or let them stick it in you, the men no longer having penises) and who’ve been brainwashed to clamp down their teeth on anything that isn’t actual food…well, that there’s not my kinda fucked-up.
The Emperor turns 77 today, which means free and beautiful sex on every channel tonight. The ceremonies will also be projected onto every available wall over two stories tall. Everywhere tonight, people getting off on him getting off on people getting off. Orgasms all around! If I go out on the street after dark, I’ll find somebody looking for a partner for the big event. I don’t want a partner, though. I want a goddamned job.
The court put a little chip in my head twenty-six months ago that killed my only marketable skills: my years of training as a ninja assassin. Now I’m lucky if I can squat to shit without throwing a disc. The one time the court actually busts me, it’s for something I didn’t do. Figures.
Somebody knocks on my door like they mean it. I don’t bother to put on a shirt. Or pants. I take a look through the peephole and see two men in bright blue suits, wearing those weird Blue Blocker sunglasses. They’re both smiling wide enough for me to count their teeth.
“Mr. Corrie?” says the one in front, who’s about a head shorter than me and two shorter than his buddy.
“Unless you’ve brought me free booze or loose women, then no.”
He gives me a weird little look, keeps smiling as he presses a button on his lapel that says “Kiss me, you’re Irish” and suddenly I smell smoke. I whip my head around for a bit, seeing if anything’s on fire, before I realize that it’s me. The back on my head is smoldering and suddenly it hurts like a dozen wasps just stung my brain.
“FUCK!”
“Mr. Corrie?”
I look through the little fisheye lense, to see if they’re flashing federal badges or something, and it hits me; I realize I know exactly how to strike my peephole to send the metal rim through the tall guy’s skull, and where and how hard to kick my shitty door to break through and fracture the little guy’s pelvis.
He just burned out the anti-ninja device. I do a silent little jig on my creaky floor in celebration. It doesn’t make a sound.
“Now, then. May we come in?”
“Mister, you can have my precious anal virginity. Door’s unlocked, lemme get us some beers…”
Gotta go. Officiating a wedding tomorrow.
benjamin sTone
Current Music: Django Reinhardt, "Marie"
Last Book I Read: Post Office, Charles Bukowski (thanks man_size and digitante, it was great)
Last Movie: Land of the Dead (2005, Romero, zombies, USA)
Next Movie: Green Snake (1993, Tsui Hark, demons and ghosts and kung fu, HK)