Macaulay Culkin's asshole

In my mind Macaulay Culkin's asshole is a prim pink bunny's nose, but in reality it's torn up, like my own, probably from years of hardcore drugs and sex.  Macaulay Culkin's asshole is the first thing I see on my computer every morning, and sometimes I get so hard, I don't even need Viagra.  I need the Viagra in the first place because I'm a heroin addict and I can't get erect.

Anyway, it was a typical day--me jerking off to Macaulay Culkin's asshole--when Todd Parker pulled up.  "Todd Parker is a guy you're perpetually wary off but his coolness hypnotizes you because you want to fuck him and you want to be him," I scribbled in a notebook.

Knock, knock, knock.

Creeeeak.  The door aches open to reveal Todd Parker.  With a mini high top, leather jacket, tight red tshirt, and leather pants, and he looks like a porno actor from the 1970s.  Todd sloshes around the gum he's chewing and he stares at me while I stare at the ground.

"So," Todd finally says.  "Are you going to tell me the punchline or what?"

"Todd, I don't know the punchline," I whisper.  "Just go away man."  My voice barely rises above a hoarse rasp as I struggle to shut the door, but somehow Todd is overpowering me.  He's pushing his way into my house.  Somehow, he's moving the prison cell tight door over me, on top of me.  Finally I can't resist, and Todd barges in.

"What's the punchline," Todd demands, and I say I don't know.

The grin Todd aims at me is made of ash.  He walks over to me, puts me in a headlock, and rubs his knuckles into my hair.

"Get away," I squeal, and Todd actually lets go of me.  I stand up, brush myself off, and look Todd in the eye.  "What?" I say, daring him.

Todd sighs a fake sigh.  "Oh," and then he speaks my name.  "You don't want to talk to me like that.  You really do not want to talk to me like that."

From his back pocket, Todd removes a small golden handle--a switchblade, which he wavves at my face before laughing.

"I'm just fucking with you," Todd says.  Pause.  "But...you do know what you have to do, right?  That is, unless you're going to tell me the punchline."

"Todd, man, I told you, I don't know the punchline.  I don't know the punchline.  I don't know what you're talking about.  I don't know the punchline."

"Well then drop those drawers, lover boy, because daddy's come for what's his--" Todd looks over at my computer screen.  "Is that Macaulay Culkin's asshole?"

something like "Surf" but not "Surf"

Billy:

I don't want to hear about your fucking job, okay? I don't want to hear about where you went on vacation last summer or who your wife's fucking or anything like that. Don't make me sick. Just don't make me sick! That's all I'm asking you.

Tommy:

Yeah she was cute and all but I could never fuck her...like, she smelled bad. She had sores.

Frank:

I think one thing we can all agree on is that this little misadventure--

Jodie:

Cut the bullshit, Frank.

Frank:

What?

Billy:

I fucking swear to god I will destroy you if you talk to me about the Bible or religion or--

Frank:

Ignore him. Please continue.

Jodie:

We're—you're—officially rapists and murders. Doesn't the phase you in the fucking least?

Tommy:

Hey, it's getting dark out here. Don't you think we should maybe, uh, do whatever we're going to do with these girls?

Frank:

Tommy, shut up. Okay, okay, let me just think. Jodie, fuck you.

Jodie:

Yeah, fuck you too.

Jodie steps into the cavity of a female human chest.

Frank:

Fuck you.

She was straddling his chest

She was straddling his chest.  It was a wooden floor, unvarnished, splinters getting stuck in her black stockings which she kept pulling out.  They were both drunk.  She kept giggling and spilling to one side.
It was a wooden floor, unvarnished, splinters getting stuck in her black stockings which she kept pulling out.  They were both drunk.  She was straddling his chest.  A flash of lightning: a splash of blood on the ground by his lips.  Wads of semen between his legs.

It was a wooden floor, unvarnished, splinters getting stuck in her black stockings which she kept pulling out.  They were both drunk.  She was straddling his chest and spilling to one side, giggling.  He made a consistent, low moaning noise.  "Shhh," she said, and put a bloody finger over his lips.  She wiped the finger, smearing blood over his lips and face.

It was a wooden floor, unvarnished, splinters getting stuck in her black stockings which she kept pulling out.  She kept spilling to one side.  They were both drunk.  She was straddling his chest.  She started to slide his pants off.  "Please," him said, voice hoarse.  "Don't".  "Okay," she said, and then paused for a moment.  She grabbed a screwdriver that was clanking around the wooden floors and drove its point into the center of him's crotch.  It didn't fully puncture skin, at first, only a little bit, making a little indentation in his genitals which gushed blood over a soundtrack of shouts.

It was a wooden floor, unvarnished, splinters getting stuck in her black stockings which she kept pulling out.  They were both drunk.  She was straddling his chest.  She now had the screwdriver halfway in him's face, and it was stuck.  She kept pulling at it, trying to dislodge it as if from a carved pumpkin.  Him was screaming and burbling.  She enjoyed the audio track of agony too much.

It was a wooden floor, unvarnished, splinters getting stuck in her black stockings which she kept pulling out.  They were both drunk.  She was straddling his chest.  She pulled the screwdriver out and blood spattered her own face.  Yuck.  Lots of wailing and moaning noises now.  Holding the yellow handle with both hands, she drove the screwdriver into him's drunk, fucked up face another once or fifty more times.

*********

Two.

I get out of the shower and it takes me a little while before I see I have a missed call from Georgia.  My first response is to panic, and then to quickly run a list of names through my head of everyone I know with a Georgia area code.  I can't remember anyone, and then my stomach becomes an eternally-hardening ball of ice because I remember: Alice.

That one night.  That one night will haunt me for the rest of my life.  She seemed like such a kid, well she didn't, but it's hard to explain...I never thought she would get the cops involved.

A knock at the front door.  I stand up, finish the tumblr of bourbon which was sitting on top of my copy of The New Yorker, inside of which I had yesterday slipped a printed-out copy of my own short fiction, just 'cause.  In the mirror that I do coke off regularly I look at myself: light tan, short expensive haircut, features soft and hard in all the right places.  I grin wide at myself, knowing that if this is it, if the cops are at my door, at least I look damned handsome and wealthy before being slandered a pedophile or whatever.

Fearless of the frantic knocking now, I pull open the front door and Alice is swinging a sdfj-dffk----

**********

Deer Diary,

Killed more evil men today.  I need new power tools.  Okay, let's see, let's see...Check mark, I'm up to....Well, you know how many I'm up to.

The Relationship

We were at a point where pictures on tumblr seem profound. We were pretty smashed. George took the computer from me and exited out of the picture of Kurt Cobain. “Look,” he said, the vodka on his breath barely staining my own inebriated nostrils. “Don't you think it's time to stop idolizing this guy?” 

I slide away on the bed and pull the computer back from George. “Never,” I snarl, and ogle a photo of Kurt holding a can of Pepsi and a cigarette. “Your obsession disturbs me,” George says, and when I look in his eyes I can't tell if he's being serious so I say, “Yeah, well, so does yours,” apropos of nothing. 

George gets pissed and topples my bedside table. “What the fuck,” I say. “Look, I can't take this any more,” George says. He jabs an index finger at the computer screen. “It's me or him. Pick one.” 

I looked at the picture of Kurt standing in front of a theater marquee saying “Men can't save you any more,” and then I looked at George's fat, red face. “Him,” I said, and shrugged. George whined and groaned simultaneously and then he stood and rampaged around my house, breaking my Nirvana records until my threats to call the police made him sit in a corner and cry. I watched as George sobbed, motionless. I was kind of relieved. I walked back to the computer. On screen was Kurt with Christmas lights around his neck. I saved the photo to my desktop.

That's how 2012 began.

The Toilet

Dedicated, with a special FUCK YOU, to everyone who doubted me.

He's sitting on a toilet, waiting for any of the three people he's been texting to text him back. One of those people is his girlfriend and he dreads hearing another word from her. Another one of those people is a girl he went to high school with and he is trying to bone her and, even though she says she has a boyfriend, he's guessing she's lying and as he squeezes his buttocks together a farting noise is emitted, syncopated with his eager heart. The other person is his best friend and he doesn't really care about him.

Light flickers from yellow, to what he assumes is neutral, to pink, to what he assumes is neutral. His phone vibrates twice. He checks it. Neither message is his girlfriend. Just then he groans and his ass cheeks shake, then open, and he dumps mounds of backed up feces painfully into the toilet. He groans again, hears his cell vibrate, reaches for it, but shits all over the inside of the toilet bowl before he can read the message. When he does he sees it's the girl he went to high school with. Score.

Washing his hands, the lights are still flickering and dimming, changing colors, and he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans for a pillbox. With his other moist hand he scratches his cock, faintly fantasizing about the girl from highschool. He opens this pill box and removes six one-milligram pills of Klonopin. He holds the pills under the running water, bends over, and shoves them up his ass with two fingers. He reaches up to the second knuckle on both fingers when something sharp catches his fingers. It feels like his ass is biting him. He tries to pull his fingers out but he can't. His ass won't let go. Doubled over in the weird lights, he charges around the bathroom until he smashes headfirst into the toilet bowl. He goes limp. His head drops into the water.

When he regains consciousness he finds himself floating underwater. The heads of Barack Obama, Mitt Romney, Karl Marx, and a masked head of the Invisible Committee are all attached to strands of shit. The strands of shit are anchored to some filthy oceanic floor. Obama head throws itself at Marx head and particles of shit disperse through the water. Invisible Committee head sits back and does nothing until Marx head approaches on its shit strand, at which point Invisible Committee head barks and makes noises no one can understand. Romney head feebly goes for Obama head but Obama head bites Romney head's shit strand and Romney retreats. 

While this is all happening he is still floating in the water, thinking, “damn, I really just wanna fuck that girl from high school.”

debauchery at 3:00

tom's walking out of class when his teacher says "fuck you".  he turns around, startled, then tom does.  now facing his teacher's back, tom grabs his teacher's waist and starts fucking viciously.  exhausted, tom pulls out and cums all over his left hand.  he studies the cum, then wipes it on his teacher's face, smearing his teacher's glasses with goo.  "well?" tom asks.  "fuck you" his teacher says.  "again?" tom asks.

adjusting his pants, tom leaves his teacher's office to find me spinning a pencil in the hallway.  "oh, hello" tom says.  "i've decided the only way to transcend love and sex is to be a nihilist," i say.  "i only care about nihilism from now on."  "that's kind of cute," tom says.  "I know," i wail.

he struggles to keep his head propped up.  his eyes pulse with pain.  he smells like a literary orgasm.  he's just completed the masterpiece he's been willing into existence for three years.  it's as good as he's been saying it will be.  it's better.  i know because james tells me so on the internet.

"i hate them all" a man declares.  "if only it were that simple," a larger man rejoins.

the black kid told the white kid that the black kid's grandma had a bottle of pills.  the black kid said if he could fuck the white kid, the white kid could have the pills.  the black kid fucked the white kid.  a train came.  the white kid got on the train without the pills.  that's how it went. 

"and jesus christ in all his glory--" "i've never been to church." he spit and leered at her.

Nobody Likes Broken Vixen

Broken Vixen wakes up to his cell vibrating and answers it in a sweat.

"Hello?" Broken's heart is pumping fast, working it's way from second gear to third.

"Dude!" Broken's heart gets to third gear and keeps chugging because the voice on the other end of the phone belongs to Tommy Pickles.  Tommy is Broken's ex-best friend, only Tommy doesn't know that yet.  Broken presses the phone back into his ear.

"Dude!  I have all kinds of crazy shit for you to do today!"

Broken takes the phone from his ear, holds it in his hands.  He waits.  Nothing happens.  He presses the phone back into his ear.

"Hello?  Broken?  Broken?"

"I don't want to do crazy shit today," Broken says.  "I'm not broken anymore."

"What do you mean?  Of course you're Broken!  You're Broken Vixen!  Who else would you be?"

"No, I mean I'm not--"

"Broken, just calm down."

"Tommy listen--"

"No you listen, Broken.  I'm bored and I need you to entertain me.  Get ready.  I'm coming by."

Tommy clicks off.  Broken stares at the phone.  He sets the phone down, gets up, paces his house, goes into the bathroom.  He looks at himself in the mirror and splashes some water on his face.  He dries his face on a towel.  Then he stands in the center of his living room and waits for Tommy to arrive.

****

Tommy shows up grinning a disastrous smile packed with jagged teeth.  He aims the smile at the door knocker and knocks.  One, two, three, four.  He doesn't stop knocking until Broken answers the door.

"Broken!"  Tommy extends his arms for a hug, giving Broken a scenic view of Tommy's considerable girth packed into a lime green track suit.

"Hi Tommy," Broken says and weakly stands to one side, inviting Tommy in.  "What, no hug?" Tommy demands, but he marches into the house anyway.  Trailing behind Tommy are a baby stroller, a clown suit, and various whips and chains. 

"What, uh, is all this stuff," Broken asks nervously. 

"Oh," Tommy says, pointing his grin at Broken's face.  "It's all for you."  The grin doesn't stop devouring, it eats through flesh all the way to Broken's skull.  "Here's what we're gonna do.  You're gonna put on this clown suit and get in this stroller.  After that we're heading to Target and I'm going to film you."

"What about the whips?" Broken asks, eying the whips as Tommy begins pulling down Broken's pants. 

"Oh, you'll see," Tommy says with his hands on Broken's belt buckle.  "You'll see what about the whips."  The laugh bellowed by Tommy makes it sound like he's eating air.

Broken pushes Tommy's hands away from his belt buckle.  "Tommy, stop.  I told you.  I'm not broken anymore.  I'm making progress with my shrink and-- and-- I'm seeing this girl--"

"No you aren't," Tommy says.  "You're Broken.  Ask anybody in this town.  You think they don't know it?"  Tommy gestures towards the neighboring buildings in the gray fog of morning, and Broken knows that he's right.  "If you aren't Broken then who are you?  You're nobody!  Nobody even knows who you are."

Defeated, Broken begins to slump to the floor.  He knows Tommy's right.  He lets Tommy remove his pants.