A solem short story for the day I don't know you, sir.
I had only recently found a use for my orphan-skin byproduct suitcase. Sunny Guatemala, there I went on a package tour holiday for the pursuit of donkey hunting. Hot cock kabobs by the menstrual pool were a delight, and I was once again introduced to my childhood love affair with intravenous drugs. Mother would have been amazed to see me sliding my face across the concrete surrounding the pool at three in the morning, trying to dig large sub-tropical mites out of my skin with the flinty end of a machete.
Holiday’s are a blessing. I bagged my first donkey within a few hours of arriving. My tour guide, a mostly bald ape named Fernando Hotch, drove me to the zoo where the donkeys were kept in a dazed stupor and promised me sex with one of his younger daughters if I were able to make trophy with one of the herd before lunch. Having the swagger of an American and the soul of a German, with a touch of the canine in my hindquarters, I felt confident that I could succeed and win both the donkey and the daughter as my prize for the day.
Within the zoo a large field had been covered over with a rough acre of concrete. The donkeys stood or lay in tight clusters, except for a few delinquent types who had migrated to the shady end of the concrete field and were clearly smoking some sort of cigarettes in an obvious show of rebellion. I decided to bag one of these upstart donkeys out of an adult form of spite that has grown within me since turning the age of twenty two and losing all touch with my adolescent sense of wonderment, causing a well of resentment and loathing of all things youthful within me.
I slipped the large plastic bag I would use to smother the donkey out of the special field bag I had purchased the week before from a specialty shop in the Sex Harlem district of New York. I chose at random a large male donkey with the kind of disposition most often associated with these sorts of non-equine, smelly beasts. Running over to him, I yelled some loud kind of anthem of words, and slipped the plastic bag over his head to his utter dismay and sorrow. I have a feeling he might have hoped his lit cigarette would burn a hole in the bag and thus save him from this fate of death-in-youth, but the bag was quite big, and as I slipped the cord around the open end and tightened it around his neck, the cigarette only served to burn the remaining gasps of air from his final prison before his legs buckled, his bowls gave way, and his heavy shoulders (or big legs, I don’t know the term) gave way and he sank to the ground a dead donkey.
I had my first donkey, on my first day, and I promised Fernando that I would make good with his offer and take his first born for the night. He seemed rather resentful on the drive back to the hotel, but I dismissed his actions from my mind as I lit a cigarette and thought of the irony of it all. ~mjp
Holiday’s are a blessing. I bagged my first donkey within a few hours of arriving. My tour guide, a mostly bald ape named Fernando Hotch, drove me to the zoo where the donkeys were kept in a dazed stupor and promised me sex with one of his younger daughters if I were able to make trophy with one of the herd before lunch. Having the swagger of an American and the soul of a German, with a touch of the canine in my hindquarters, I felt confident that I could succeed and win both the donkey and the daughter as my prize for the day.
Within the zoo a large field had been covered over with a rough acre of concrete. The donkeys stood or lay in tight clusters, except for a few delinquent types who had migrated to the shady end of the concrete field and were clearly smoking some sort of cigarettes in an obvious show of rebellion. I decided to bag one of these upstart donkeys out of an adult form of spite that has grown within me since turning the age of twenty two and losing all touch with my adolescent sense of wonderment, causing a well of resentment and loathing of all things youthful within me.
I slipped the large plastic bag I would use to smother the donkey out of the special field bag I had purchased the week before from a specialty shop in the Sex Harlem district of New York. I chose at random a large male donkey with the kind of disposition most often associated with these sorts of non-equine, smelly beasts. Running over to him, I yelled some loud kind of anthem of words, and slipped the plastic bag over his head to his utter dismay and sorrow. I have a feeling he might have hoped his lit cigarette would burn a hole in the bag and thus save him from this fate of death-in-youth, but the bag was quite big, and as I slipped the cord around the open end and tightened it around his neck, the cigarette only served to burn the remaining gasps of air from his final prison before his legs buckled, his bowls gave way, and his heavy shoulders (or big legs, I don’t know the term) gave way and he sank to the ground a dead donkey.
I had my first donkey, on my first day, and I promised Fernando that I would make good with his offer and take his first born for the night. He seemed rather resentful on the drive back to the hotel, but I dismissed his actions from my mind as I lit a cigarette and thought of the irony of it all. ~mjp