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Posts Tagged ‘Pancakes’

It didn’t take long for James to come along and nudge him with his fat stump of an arm. As large as a mountain and twice as silent, James didn’t say anything when David staggered up and glared at him sharply. Indifferent to his glare of protest, James turned his attention to the rest of the cafeteria, scanning for any more stragglers.

Although James was barely 5’8” and exceeded 375 pounds, he was possibly the fastest thing on two legs. The gazelle can reach speeds of 50 mph, and, as anybody knows, the Cheetah beats this by at least 20 mph. In times of conflict, James could easily double this. There were many times when David witnessed a fight break out halfway across the ground floor of the school, and, in a breath, James was there strangling one guy with his left while holding another to the ground with his right. Watching James mediate conflicts was like watching a large beast overcome its prey on the Discovery Channel. It had the same magnificence and the same gore ridden climax that satisfied the savage bloodlust that all of men share.

One morning, David was unfortunate enough to feel his wrath. Walking past and courteously waving to James, which was returned with a smile, David passed him at a leisurely pace with a grin on his face from a more than satisfactory wake and bake session with true kine buds. Suddenly, he had something that could only be described as a giant orangutan on steroids on his back breathing hot breath into his ear molesting his ass. All the breath was pushed out of David and the substantial weight that was on his body wouldn’t allow any to come back in. Two hands scrambled around David’s ass, and his eyes went wide with the realization that the orangutan was trying to ass rape him. Afraid that if he screamed, it would only excite the beast more and entice it to donkey punch him in the back of the head while it vigorously pounded his ass. David tried to scream anyway, but all that came out was a whining whimper that sounded like it came out of twelve year old girl that had scraped her knee on the playground. The orangutan pulled something out of his pocket, and, before his cherry was popped, the weight lifted. At that moment, he knew how sailors who had been drowning must’ve felt when they finally found which way was up and found the surface. Taking in that first breath of cool air almost tears the lungs, but you’re not able to restrain yourself and you do so as if you may never be able to breath again. It was the breath of freedom without an ass rape.

James observed the black comb that was torn out of the young man’s back pocket with only a glimmer of regret. “Sorry, I thought it was a gun.” He held out the comb, handing it back to David in an unspoken gesture of peace, which David found unusual considering that James’ gesture was returning stolen property that had been obtained through fear and brute force.

David reached for the comb and took it without a word, gently nodding as he put it back into his pocket. There were no words for him to utter anyway. Some may say that he should’ve raised some voice of protest, stand on a soapbox and proclaim his tactics as abuses and demand reconciliation. David would submit that he was just happy to walk away with his cherry intact. Besides, David couldn’t help but respect such an animal in his natural environment, and when the animal nudges, you move.

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Vasovaga Syncope is a fainting episode mediated by the Vagus Nerve. Tabor’s Medical Dictionary describes this as a “feeling of impending death.” David compared it to already being dead. No dreams, no ability to tell if any time has passed, one moment you’re sitting on a couch with a girl drooling on your crotch, the next, you come to sick, quivering, and covered in sweat with a beam of light burning through your retina. In spite of his knowledge of the subject, this had happened to him only once before.

David was shaking and sweating in an apartment bathroom where some asshole had already passed out on the floor in a pool of his own piss and puke. Sitting on the sink with his feet on the asshole’s back, David kept himself from getting the contents of someone’s stomach on his Converse. As he waited for his head to stop spinning, he gazed at a half-digested pepperoncini that surfed on a sea of bile with other formless masses of undigested whatever. David wasn’t sure, but he thought the poor bastard had also shit himself, which was deduced from what seemed to be a brown warshak forming on the back of his pants. If this asshole had managed to cut himself and ejaculate before he passed out, the floor would’ve been the ultimate mélange of bodily fluids. David’s feet rose with every labored breath that the asshole took, which didn’t help with the nausea. Combined with the aroma of half-digested Papa John’s and Vodka, the breathing motions swelling under his feet were only making David feel worse. He hoped that the asshole would just stop breathing, but, considering a liter of Smirnoff didn’t get the job done, David suspected that his hopes and wishes wouldn’t be able to kill him either. “Fresh air,” David swallowed. Using him as a floor mat, David balanced on the asshole’s lower back, opened the door, and leapt over the river of puke that separated him from the hallway. Throwing on his coat, David almost got out of the door before some other asshole asked where he was going.

 

“Hey, where you going?”

David wasn’t sure. “Get some food,” is what he assumed he answered with, and he was correct in his assumption.

“Where?”

“I said I was going to get food.” David misunderstood the question.

“Where are you going to get food?” he clarified.

If the guy wasn’t so damn blurry, David might’ve punched him for asking stupid questions in a time of great distress. “White Asshole,” roared out of David’s mouth, but he wasn’t sure that he responded at all. He was too occupied watching the rest of the room filled with people dissolving into a hazy mass of drunken blurs.

“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” One of the other drunken blurs called out.

Wasn’t it obvious? David didn’t say anything.

“Hey! Are you all right?”

David knew that ‘Hey! Are you all right?’ is a phrase that he would never want to hear while partaking in massive amounts of drug and alcohol abuse. ‘Hey! Are you all right?’ is a universally redundant question. If it’s asked of someone, the person is already pretty fucking far from all right, and the person you are asking is already well aware that he or she is about to die. By the time the question hit his ears, David was already on his way down to the floor. Even though he didn’t feel anything, he knew he hit the floor hard by the unanimous roar of “Holy Shit!” called out by every drunken blur in the living room.

David couldn’t see anything and couldn’t move, but he was able to hear, which was even more terrifying. No bright light, and he didn’t notice any relatives at the other end of a tunnel. Probably better off anyway. I’m sure that if any of my relatives were aware of how often I masturbated and snorted coke, they would just shake their heads and wag their fingers. Although David didn’t see any signs of an afterlife, he did hear a single voice calling out to him out of the black.

“Dude, Don’t be dead.”

After the poorly timed Bill and Ted quotation, David’s next memory was of him sitting on the couch, breathing heavily, where the drunken blurs were just a minute before. He guessed that he was still alive, but he wasn’t relieved.

 

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Monday finally decided to show its ugly face, and Dom welcomed its ghoulish grin as a relief from a weekend wrought with unrelieved sexual frustration and drama. While belligerently stumbling down the halls of Streamwood High, he lifted his head just long enough to see Tara distracted with someone else. Didn’t know who it was and didn’t care. He wanted to be left alone in a puddle of built up angst, and the fact that Tara was torturing some other poor bastard was a good start. He walked past her without being noticed and dragged his squeaking Converses down the linoleum halls till he reached Algebra. Slamming his head down on his desk with a smack, Dom closed his eyes, hoping to catch up on the precious sleep that utter turmoil had robbed him of throughout the weekend. Kids always sleep much better when someone is trying to teach them something.

There wasn’t any sleep to be had, though. Cursed images coursed through his head in a steady stream of bloody entrails and semen. Like A Clockwork Orange, where that guy had the things holding his eyes open while he was force fed brutal images of rabbits raping a puppy, Dom too was being force-fed the results of the savageness of nature and human kind. A malicious omnipresent being was skull-fucking him, ejaculating into his frontal lobe.

Besides the gruesome carnage, which Dom believed he could deal with, various images of vegetable girl would occasionally interject themselves between acts of bestial-necrophilia and homoerotic-cannibalism. He wasn’t so sure he could deal with that. One moment, she was lying peacefully in Tara’s bed in a sundress with one strap hanging off of her shoulder, staring at him from behind sleepy eyes, then her image quickly left and was replaced by a gorilla donkey-punching a dead monkey. “That’s better,” he thought to himself. Then, she came back, and the blood in Dom’s body slowly made its way to his penis where it bore an erection. At least, he was hoping she was the reason for his erection. He knew it would’ve given him good reason to be concerned if a dead monkey was getting him hard. Although, he figured it was hard to tell since the dead monkey did look like it was enjoying getting donkey-punched.

For some reason getting wood while thinking about vegetable girl felt like getting hard looking at naked pictures of his cousin. But he knew it would’ve been better off to masturbate to naked pictures of his cousin than to let this tragedy invade his brain. “At least my cousin has bigger tits,” he mumbled to himself hoping afterward that nobody had heard that out of context. Well, even in context it would’ve been difficult to explain. It would be best just to kill anyone who had heard him, bury them in Bode Woods somewhere. He tried to bring back the comfort of gruesome images to his mind and push her out, but she mercilessly eliminated them like a five-foot-four Charles Bronson with long hair and perky tits. It was too damn easy for her.

Annoyed, he opened his eyes but kept his head down, staring at a sliver of light that reflected off of the top of his desk. Someone told him that you could smell a storm coming. Probably one of those southern sayings that his mother had thought to impart to him. Occasionally, his dialect would fall into southern speak depending on his company. If he was around it enough, he would be stuck talking like he was from Alabama for days, confusing the hell out of everyone, including himself. Anyway, yeah, so, you can smell a storm coming. He speculated if the same could be said of shit-storms. After a lot of thinking, he came to the conclusion that you can only smell it after you’ve already stepped in it.

Irritated by his mind’s fascination with vegetable girl, he started bouncing his forehead off of his desk, bludgeoning himself in the hopes of making a hole big enough to let the images escape. He didn’t think there was any reason for enthrallment; he had definitely seen better-looking girls, and most of them never even tried to puke on him. At first, he thought it was because the only hands to touch his dick at the party were his own, but he knew, unlike most days of his life, this time it wasn’t his dick that was the problem. Remembering when she called him her “guardian angel” caused his stomach to spasm, pushing bile to the back of his tongue, reminding him of the first time he snorted heroin. After projectile vomiting all over the side of his Bronco, warmth pulsed from his head, pushing itself down until it touched his toes. Not knowing that when you snort heroin, it’s best to find a place to sit as quickly as possible, his knees buckled and he slammed his forehead against the passenger side mirror and knocked himself out. After waking up face down in a pool of blood-vomit milkshake, Dom put his heroin days behind him. After careful consideration, he realized vegetable girl’s words had the same effect on him, compounded with an erection that could hammer a nail through mahogany.

Nauseated and aroused, he didn’t wait for the bell to ring and bolted out of class, holding his book bag in front of him in a Navy-Seal-stealth-like attempt to hide the fact that he was looking for a good time. Mr. Tack knew by now it was best not to ask too many questions and continued teaching the Pythagorean theorem to a class of kids that would much rather be doing something that would force Mr. Tack to question his belief in god.

The first recluse of the newly damned is seclusion. Keep yourself from the rest of them. Don’t let their sin soak into your skin. Dom was doing an admirable job of avoiding confrontations with them for approximately twenty-six hours and twenty-two minutes and thirty seconds before one of the sinners hit him square in the nuts. And, with a baseball-bat-like erection, he regarded getting hit in the berries not dissimilar from having his dick split by an iron boot.

Caving, falling to the linoleum floor in a lifeless heap, he tightened his lips to keep the vomit that had erupted into his mouth from spewing out. A savage perpetrator fell on the linoleum in front of him with a smack. “Poor guy must’ve really hurt his knee on my nuts,” Dom thought in-between blinding flashes of searing pain. His eyes quickly blurred with tears, which made him briefly wonder if anybody would mind if he started to cry. The crippled young man only hoped that, when the haze cleared, whoever hit him in the scrotum would be a ravenous monster thirty for blood and organs so that it would just devour him completely and get it over with. Unfortunately, he was sure that the blurry form was human and unlikely bloodthirsty. But it was still a bastard nonetheless.

After his tear ducts were spent and the blurry forms in his sights began to coalesce into form, he noticed an auburn-colored mane of hair whipping from one side to the other in confusion, and connected to the whipping form was vegetable girl, fully awake and seeking ball-crunching vengeance. Apparently, vegetable girl’s hair was auburn when it wasn’t soaked in greasy sweat. He thought about how etiquette would require him to say “hi” and to politely thank her for cracking his testicles into fragments, but he was afraid he would only inconvenience her further by puking blood all over her face.

She stopped, flipping her head around in confusion, and stared at him wildly like she was going to say something like “Watch where you’re going!” or just call him a dick, but she didn’t. Instead, she smiled like a puppy that had just shit on the carpet.

Dom jumped up so quick that he almost fell on top of her. With bruised nuts and a still waning erection, he didn’t think it would be a good idea to slam his body on top of hers and get arrested for attempted rape. When he finally steadied, he tried to say something witty like ‘I’ll take this as a thank you for saving your life?’ but all that came out was “I’ll take this…” before some of the vomit that had filled his mouth moved into his lungs, choking him like a bastard. Dom threw his hand around his mouth to keep from throwing chunks all over the smiling girl. Uncontrollably, he twisted around and stumbled away as he gagged and coughed. As he ran away, he noticed a warm wet sensation in his crotch. Unsure if it was bloody semen or piss, he didn’t bother to stop and check.

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