The Overwhelming Urge is a collection of short stories from bizarro writer Andersen Prunty.
To learn more about the bizarro genre of literature, visit Bizarro Central.
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The Inconsequential Man
Adjusting my ascot and staring outside, I notice a man sprawled face down in the middle of the road. I adjust the ascot all wrong and make a high bleating noise of despair. The maid comes over to help me. Her hair smells like oranges as her deft fingers manipulate the ascot into the perfect shape.
“There there,” she says, trying to stop my bleating.
I gesture outside and say, “Did you notice...”
“The guy out there?” she says. “Yeah, I seen him.”
“Should we do something about it?”
“I don’t see how it’s our responsibility.”
I shrug. She has a point, I guess.
“I’m gonna go clean all them jars,” she says.
I nod. We did indeed go through a lot of jars last night. I can’t take my eyes off the man out there in the road. What could possibly be wrong with him? Was he dead? Did he pass out? Was he drunk? Beaten?
A loud car with flames painted on the side, driven by a guy with a mullet, comes roaring down the road, running over the man. The car does not stop or turn around. I pull up a chair and continue to stare out the window. I bellow at the maid to bring me a sandwich. She brings the sandwich and I tell her I don’t have time, just shove it in my mouth. She goes about it with a bit more brutality than I appreciate and I tell her she’s this close to being let go, holding my thumb very close to my forefinger. She looks over my shoulder at the now pulped man out in the road. “Still out there, huh?” she says.
“It’s fascinating,” I say.
“I gotta get back to them jars.”
I wait for one of the passing cars to stop. None of them do. I wait for someone to show up. No one does. Again, I bellow at the maid, this time for a phone. I tell her to dial emergency. She does this with fingers puckered from cleaning and hands the phone to me. “I ain’t talkin to no cop,” she says.
“Are you aware of the situation on C Road?” I ask.
“What!?” a gruff man shouts.
“There’s a man out on the road...”
“Is this a prank!?”
“No. I’m afraid it’s fairly serious. There’s a man...”
“You got the wrong line buddy!”
“Is this the police?”
“You got that right.”
“Then I have an emergency I need to report.”
“We don’t have time to deal with that!”
“I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”
“Jesus, would you leave us alone!? Take your business elsewhere!”
Then he hangs up the phone. I continue to watch the man. Sometime during the night, the maid tells me she’s pregnant and leaves. She doesn’t come back.
The man stays in the road for days. Eventually two burly old men in t-shirts and sweatpants come outside and gather around the pulpy lump in the road. One of them complains about the stink. The other one tells him he’ll take care of it. Both men depart. One of them comes back about a half hour later with a shovel and a wheelbarrow. He scrapes the man up off the road and carts him away. I wipe the sweat from my brow and call the maid service, looking for a replacement.
“There there,” she says, trying to stop my bleating.
I gesture outside and say, “Did you notice...”
“The guy out there?” she says. “Yeah, I seen him.”
“Should we do something about it?”
“I don’t see how it’s our responsibility.”
I shrug. She has a point, I guess.
“I’m gonna go clean all them jars,” she says.
I nod. We did indeed go through a lot of jars last night. I can’t take my eyes off the man out there in the road. What could possibly be wrong with him? Was he dead? Did he pass out? Was he drunk? Beaten?
A loud car with flames painted on the side, driven by a guy with a mullet, comes roaring down the road, running over the man. The car does not stop or turn around. I pull up a chair and continue to stare out the window. I bellow at the maid to bring me a sandwich. She brings the sandwich and I tell her I don’t have time, just shove it in my mouth. She goes about it with a bit more brutality than I appreciate and I tell her she’s this close to being let go, holding my thumb very close to my forefinger. She looks over my shoulder at the now pulped man out in the road. “Still out there, huh?” she says.
“It’s fascinating,” I say.
“I gotta get back to them jars.”
I wait for one of the passing cars to stop. None of them do. I wait for someone to show up. No one does. Again, I bellow at the maid, this time for a phone. I tell her to dial emergency. She does this with fingers puckered from cleaning and hands the phone to me. “I ain’t talkin to no cop,” she says.
“Are you aware of the situation on C Road?” I ask.
“What!?” a gruff man shouts.
“There’s a man out on the road...”
“Is this a prank!?”
“No. I’m afraid it’s fairly serious. There’s a man...”
“You got the wrong line buddy!”
“Is this the police?”
“You got that right.”
“Then I have an emergency I need to report.”
“We don’t have time to deal with that!”
“I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”
“Jesus, would you leave us alone!? Take your business elsewhere!”
Then he hangs up the phone. I continue to watch the man. Sometime during the night, the maid tells me she’s pregnant and leaves. She doesn’t come back.
The man stays in the road for days. Eventually two burly old men in t-shirts and sweatpants come outside and gather around the pulpy lump in the road. One of them complains about the stink. The other one tells him he’ll take care of it. Both men depart. One of them comes back about a half hour later with a shovel and a wheelbarrow. He scrapes the man up off the road and carts him away. I wipe the sweat from my brow and call the maid service, looking for a replacement.
The Joke
As a joke, a man’s wife serves him with divorce papers. She has them sent, already signed by her, to his place of work. Understanding dawns on him as he reads through the papers. He still doesn’t get the joke so he assumes his wife wants a divorce.
“Oh boy,” he says, placing his forehead against the smooth wood of his desk. The man’s name is John, but everyone calls him Foot because of his condition. He remains with his head down, gently tapping his forehead against the wood. This is completely out of the blue. Just last week, he and his wife took a vacation to the remote island of Gonop. How could she? Why would she? He just doesn’t understand...
Later that day a coworker comes by his office and sees him still in the head down position. “What’s wrong, Foot?” the coworker says.
“It’s my wife,” Foot says, not raising his head.
“I’m sorry. Is something the matter with her?”
Foot raises his head. His eyes are red and watery. “She wants a divorce.”
“Welcome to the club,” the coworker says, raising a fist of solidarity and strolling back into the office.
Throughout the day, Foot’s anger builds. She has no right to do this, he thinks. Not without any explanation whatsoever. That kind of thing just isn’t done. By the time he gets home, he is ready to tell her all of this. He is ready to throw the papers across the room and tell her they are meaningless but, upon opening the door to his house, Foot is once again shocked.
Taking the joke one step further, his wife has decided to sleep with another man. She and her lover are actually in the act when Foot walks through the door. They are on the couch. The man wears a buckskin coat and nothing else as his hips dive vigorously between Foot’s wife’s legs.
“Oh,” his wife says between moans. “You’re home.”
The man continues to pound away.
Foot, still holding the divorce papers in his hands, brandishes them at his wife. “Jesus Christ!” he shouts, strolling across the room to grab the buckskinned man by the shoulder. “Get the hell off my wife!” He jerks the man away. His wife makes no attempt to cover herself. The man only looks emptily at him, absently toying with his huge penis.
His wife looks surprised. “I don’t understand why you’re so upset, Footy.”
“You serve me with divorce papers and then I come home to find you fucking another man. You don’t understand why I’m upset?”
“It was... just a joke,” she says, giggling.
“A joke!” he shouts.
“Yeah,” she says. “Just a joke. Pretty good one, huh?”
The buckskinned man laughs. His laugh is very deep. The laugh of a simpleton, Foot thinks.
Still, a sense of relief washes over him. Sitting down on the couch beside his wife he says, “You mean, you don’t really want a divorce?”
“Of course not,” she says. “I told you, it was just a joke.”
“A joke, huh?” Foot puts the divorce papers on the coffee table. The buckskinned man is edging toward the front door, still naked except for the coat. “What about him?” Foot says.
“Oh, he was part of the joke. That’s Norman. He works at the hardware store on the corner.”
“I thought he looked familiar,” Foot says.
“You just need to lighten up,” his wife says, swiping his arm with her hand. “You’re such a stick in the mud.”
“Yeah,” Foot says. “I guess I can be.”
Norman leaves through the front door and, looking at his wife sitting complacently on the couch, Foot finally gets
“Oh boy,” he says, placing his forehead against the smooth wood of his desk. The man’s name is John, but everyone calls him Foot because of his condition. He remains with his head down, gently tapping his forehead against the wood. This is completely out of the blue. Just last week, he and his wife took a vacation to the remote island of Gonop. How could she? Why would she? He just doesn’t understand...
Later that day a coworker comes by his office and sees him still in the head down position. “What’s wrong, Foot?” the coworker says.
“It’s my wife,” Foot says, not raising his head.
“I’m sorry. Is something the matter with her?”
Foot raises his head. His eyes are red and watery. “She wants a divorce.”
“Welcome to the club,” the coworker says, raising a fist of solidarity and strolling back into the office.
Throughout the day, Foot’s anger builds. She has no right to do this, he thinks. Not without any explanation whatsoever. That kind of thing just isn’t done. By the time he gets home, he is ready to tell her all of this. He is ready to throw the papers across the room and tell her they are meaningless but, upon opening the door to his house, Foot is once again shocked.
Taking the joke one step further, his wife has decided to sleep with another man. She and her lover are actually in the act when Foot walks through the door. They are on the couch. The man wears a buckskin coat and nothing else as his hips dive vigorously between Foot’s wife’s legs.
“Oh,” his wife says between moans. “You’re home.”
The man continues to pound away.
Foot, still holding the divorce papers in his hands, brandishes them at his wife. “Jesus Christ!” he shouts, strolling across the room to grab the buckskinned man by the shoulder. “Get the hell off my wife!” He jerks the man away. His wife makes no attempt to cover herself. The man only looks emptily at him, absently toying with his huge penis.
His wife looks surprised. “I don’t understand why you’re so upset, Footy.”
“You serve me with divorce papers and then I come home to find you fucking another man. You don’t understand why I’m upset?”
“It was... just a joke,” she says, giggling.
“A joke!” he shouts.
“Yeah,” she says. “Just a joke. Pretty good one, huh?”
The buckskinned man laughs. His laugh is very deep. The laugh of a simpleton, Foot thinks.
Still, a sense of relief washes over him. Sitting down on the couch beside his wife he says, “You mean, you don’t really want a divorce?”
“Of course not,” she says. “I told you, it was just a joke.”
“A joke, huh?” Foot puts the divorce papers on the coffee table. The buckskinned man is edging toward the front door, still naked except for the coat. “What about him?” Foot says.
“Oh, he was part of the joke. That’s Norman. He works at the hardware store on the corner.”
“I thought he looked familiar,” Foot says.
“You just need to lighten up,” his wife says, swiping his arm with her hand. “You’re such a stick in the mud.”
“Yeah,” Foot says. “I guess I can be.”
Norman leaves through the front door and, looking at his wife sitting complacently on the couch, Foot finally gets
Frogs
Three white thugs are playing leap frog on the sidewalk in front of my house. It is very late, nearly four in the morning. Throwing on my most intimidating robe, I wander out onto the porch. One of the thugs stares impishly at the two engaged in the game. The one in the black backward baseball hat expertly jumps over the one in the oversized basketball jersey. The one watching grabs his crotch and says, “Oh, man, you fucking rocked that one.” Then he hops up and down and says, very rapidly, “I wanna play! I wanna play! I wanna play!”
“Hey!” I shout from the porch, pulling my robe tightly around my neck. “Can you guys keep it down? I’m trying to sleep.”
The two playing the game continue to leap over one another. The third wheel hikes up his pants and glides over to the porch. “Hey, motherfucker,” he says. “Wanna come down and play some fuckin leap frog with us?”
“No thanks,” I say.
“Hey motherfucker I din’t say you had a fuckin choice.”
“Just keep it down,” I say.
But he is already coming up the walk, approaching me. It doesn’t look so good. “C’mon man, don’ be such a fuckin honkey motherfucker. Me and my homies got us a good game goin, dawg. ‘Sides, if ya don’t, I’m gonna bust yer ass.” He brandishes a shiny gun, held in one of his oversize pants pockets. I guess I don’t really have much of a choice. The other two have leaped nearly to the end of the sidewalk, giggling wildly with each leap and shouting “Fuck!” a whole lot. “Name’s G-spot,” the one in front of me says, grabbing my arm and pushing me down to the sidewalk. I shake my arm away from him.
“You don’t have to grab me,” I say.
“Now get down, motherfucker. I’m gonna fuckin go first.”
I loosen my robe and crouch down on the sidewalk. It occurs to me that I’ve never played leap frog before. What if I screw up and accidentally land on the punk, G-spot?
“Here I fuckin go!” he shouts and leaps over me. The crotch of his pants hits me in the back of the head, thrusting me forward onto the sidewalk.
I stand up, angry. I want to kick him in the back of the head but I’m not wearing any shoes and he has a gun. He’s crouched down, waiting for me to leap. “You almost broke my nose,” I say.
“Don’t be such a fuckin pussy. Come on!”
I rear back on my haunches and attempt to leap over him. My robe gets all tangled and I land on G-spot, rolling off and sprawling half on the street and half on the sidewalk. He lays face down, twitching. The other two thugs come running. “Fuck, dawg, what happened!” Baseball Hat shouts.
I straighten my robe and gesture down at the fallen youth.
“He fuckin killed G-spot!” Basketball Jersey says. “That’s some fucked up shit, dawg!”
It’s possible I did kill him. Luckily, the thugs are distracted by an ice cream truck coming down the road, playing its haunting tune at top volume. I think it’s “Fur Elise” but I can’t tell because it’s so distorted. The ice cream truck, spotting the thugs, comes to a screeching halt. The driver leans out and vomits. “Hey!” he shouts. “Hey! Anybody want any ice cream?” He gets out of the truck, staggering around, falling into the side of it, vomits again, and makes his way to the back doors.
“Aw, fuck, man,” Baseball Hat says, bending his knees and waving his arms in the air. “He’s fuckin wasted.”
“Hey, dawg,” Basketball Jersey says to me. “You got any ho tickets?”
I put my hands in the pockets of my robe. Since I don’t know what he’s talking about, I pretend I didn’t hear him.
“Hey, dawg, I’m talkin to you. You got any green?”
“Money?” I say.
“Fuck yeah.”
“Not on me.”
“C’mon. You get us some cream we’ll forget all about G-spot.”
“I didn’t do anything anyway!”
“The fuck you didn’t. He fuckin sucked at leap frog but you were the one took him down.”
“He almost broke my nose!”
“You ain’t the one that’s dead, motherfucker.”
The ice cream man throws up the door at the back of the truck, grabs various ice cream products and throws them at the thugs before passing out. The thugs gather up the ice cream bars and stuff them in their pockets. “Shit man,” Baseball Hat says, “Let’s take this motherfucker for a ride.” He climbs into the driver’s seat and Basketball Jersey crosses over to the passenger side.
“What are you going to do about...” I begin.
“G-spot?”
“Yeah.”
“Leave him. I guess it serves him right. He’s your responsibility now. Sucks though.”
I look down at the sad youth sprawled on the sidewalk. The two thugs speed away in the ice cream truck, the back doors flapping open and closed. I think about dragging him inside or calling someone. Then I think better of it. Best just to go inside and pretend this never happened. Maybe, if anyone finds him, they’ll just write it off to some sort of gang violence. I go back inside and, exhausted from the leap frogging, fall quickly asleep. When I wake up the house is filled with the pulsing rhythm of rap music. I’m not surprised when I go downstairs and find G-spot in the kitchen, dancing some ridiculous dance and eating a bowl of cereal. The kitchen smells like marijuana, sweat and cheap beer. My soul hurts. I sit at the table and massage my throbbing temples. I feel very white and very old and very snobbish. G-spot’s gun sits on the counter, apparently it impedes his dancing, and I stare at it, wondering how I’m going to get him out of the house.
“Hey!” I shout from the porch, pulling my robe tightly around my neck. “Can you guys keep it down? I’m trying to sleep.”
The two playing the game continue to leap over one another. The third wheel hikes up his pants and glides over to the porch. “Hey, motherfucker,” he says. “Wanna come down and play some fuckin leap frog with us?”
“No thanks,” I say.
“Hey motherfucker I din’t say you had a fuckin choice.”
“Just keep it down,” I say.
But he is already coming up the walk, approaching me. It doesn’t look so good. “C’mon man, don’ be such a fuckin honkey motherfucker. Me and my homies got us a good game goin, dawg. ‘Sides, if ya don’t, I’m gonna bust yer ass.” He brandishes a shiny gun, held in one of his oversize pants pockets. I guess I don’t really have much of a choice. The other two have leaped nearly to the end of the sidewalk, giggling wildly with each leap and shouting “Fuck!” a whole lot. “Name’s G-spot,” the one in front of me says, grabbing my arm and pushing me down to the sidewalk. I shake my arm away from him.
“You don’t have to grab me,” I say.
“Now get down, motherfucker. I’m gonna fuckin go first.”
I loosen my robe and crouch down on the sidewalk. It occurs to me that I’ve never played leap frog before. What if I screw up and accidentally land on the punk, G-spot?
“Here I fuckin go!” he shouts and leaps over me. The crotch of his pants hits me in the back of the head, thrusting me forward onto the sidewalk.
I stand up, angry. I want to kick him in the back of the head but I’m not wearing any shoes and he has a gun. He’s crouched down, waiting for me to leap. “You almost broke my nose,” I say.
“Don’t be such a fuckin pussy. Come on!”
I rear back on my haunches and attempt to leap over him. My robe gets all tangled and I land on G-spot, rolling off and sprawling half on the street and half on the sidewalk. He lays face down, twitching. The other two thugs come running. “Fuck, dawg, what happened!” Baseball Hat shouts.
I straighten my robe and gesture down at the fallen youth.
“He fuckin killed G-spot!” Basketball Jersey says. “That’s some fucked up shit, dawg!”
It’s possible I did kill him. Luckily, the thugs are distracted by an ice cream truck coming down the road, playing its haunting tune at top volume. I think it’s “Fur Elise” but I can’t tell because it’s so distorted. The ice cream truck, spotting the thugs, comes to a screeching halt. The driver leans out and vomits. “Hey!” he shouts. “Hey! Anybody want any ice cream?” He gets out of the truck, staggering around, falling into the side of it, vomits again, and makes his way to the back doors.
“Aw, fuck, man,” Baseball Hat says, bending his knees and waving his arms in the air. “He’s fuckin wasted.”
“Hey, dawg,” Basketball Jersey says to me. “You got any ho tickets?”
I put my hands in the pockets of my robe. Since I don’t know what he’s talking about, I pretend I didn’t hear him.
“Hey, dawg, I’m talkin to you. You got any green?”
“Money?” I say.
“Fuck yeah.”
“Not on me.”
“C’mon. You get us some cream we’ll forget all about G-spot.”
“I didn’t do anything anyway!”
“The fuck you didn’t. He fuckin sucked at leap frog but you were the one took him down.”
“He almost broke my nose!”
“You ain’t the one that’s dead, motherfucker.”
The ice cream man throws up the door at the back of the truck, grabs various ice cream products and throws them at the thugs before passing out. The thugs gather up the ice cream bars and stuff them in their pockets. “Shit man,” Baseball Hat says, “Let’s take this motherfucker for a ride.” He climbs into the driver’s seat and Basketball Jersey crosses over to the passenger side.
“What are you going to do about...” I begin.
“G-spot?”
“Yeah.”
“Leave him. I guess it serves him right. He’s your responsibility now. Sucks though.”
I look down at the sad youth sprawled on the sidewalk. The two thugs speed away in the ice cream truck, the back doors flapping open and closed. I think about dragging him inside or calling someone. Then I think better of it. Best just to go inside and pretend this never happened. Maybe, if anyone finds him, they’ll just write it off to some sort of gang violence. I go back inside and, exhausted from the leap frogging, fall quickly asleep. When I wake up the house is filled with the pulsing rhythm of rap music. I’m not surprised when I go downstairs and find G-spot in the kitchen, dancing some ridiculous dance and eating a bowl of cereal. The kitchen smells like marijuana, sweat and cheap beer. My soul hurts. I sit at the table and massage my throbbing temples. I feel very white and very old and very snobbish. G-spot’s gun sits on the counter, apparently it impedes his dancing, and I stare at it, wondering how I’m going to get him out of the house.
Drugs
My balls are swelled up. I am in the bathroom about ready to puncture my scrotum with a huge needle, figuring the swellage must be something fluid related, when the doorbell rings. It startles me and the needle flies out of my hands and into the bathtub. “Shit,” I think, “this is going to be really embarrassing.” I rush to find the baggiest pair of pants I can and cross the house to answer the door.
Upon opening the door I am a bit startled to see four men in dour gray suits standing on my porch.
“Mr. L?” the man in the forefront asks.
“No, I’m Mr. C.”
“Is this 2300 Rosewood?”
“Yes it is.”
“I think we need to have a look in your basement.”
“May I ask what for?”
“Hiding something, Mr. L?”
“No, no, not at all, it’s just, well...”
“Drugs, Mr. L. We’ve had complaints of drugs.”
“I assure you that’s ridiculous. You’re more than welcome to have a look.”
I walk them over to the door of my basement, my legs slightly bowed on account of my huge scrotum. A casual glance over my shoulder reveals that they are traveling in a single file line. I open the door and click on the light, standing aside to let them enter. They all go down into the basement. After a few moments, I hear one of them call, “You better come down here, Mr. L!”
I walk down the steps. At first, the basement seems impossibly bright. As soon as I reach the bottom of the steps, I realize why.
The entire floor is covered in marijuana plants that reach chest-high. The ceiling is lined with sun lamps.
“Impressive,” I say, and then, “I know absolutely nothing about this.”
“We’re going to have to confiscate your house, Mr. L.”
There is no argument. Even though I know nothing about it I am clearly cultivating a drug field in my basement.
“Yes, of course. Will you be taking everything else in the house, also?”
“Well, we’ll be taking all of this marijuana.”
“I see.”
We all go upstairs. The man in charge makes a few calls with my phone. The others periodically shoot accusing looks at me as I struggle to move the couch out of the house. This task is made all the more difficult because of my swelling. I get the couch out to the curb and sit down on it, homeless, both my back and my balls hurting immeasurably.
I can't resist checking on my condition so I stand up and glance down into my pants. Amazingly, my underwear is stuffed with the marijuana leaves. The men are coming out of the house, the man in charge tossing the keys up in the air and catching them. They stand at the curb and make casual chit-chat until a bus comes and they all board.
They come back later that night with their wives, girlfriends and children. The next day a moving van brings all their stuff over. They leave the house every morning smelling like pot. People of all ages visit the house at all hours.
Two days later, the garbage man comes and tells me he has to take the couch. “It’s on the curb,” he says. I reach down into my pants and hand him the marijuana, moist from being in my crotch for days.
“Please, one more week,” I plead.
Upon opening the door I am a bit startled to see four men in dour gray suits standing on my porch.
“Mr. L?” the man in the forefront asks.
“No, I’m Mr. C.”
“Is this 2300 Rosewood?”
“Yes it is.”
“I think we need to have a look in your basement.”
“May I ask what for?”
“Hiding something, Mr. L?”
“No, no, not at all, it’s just, well...”
“Drugs, Mr. L. We’ve had complaints of drugs.”
“I assure you that’s ridiculous. You’re more than welcome to have a look.”
I walk them over to the door of my basement, my legs slightly bowed on account of my huge scrotum. A casual glance over my shoulder reveals that they are traveling in a single file line. I open the door and click on the light, standing aside to let them enter. They all go down into the basement. After a few moments, I hear one of them call, “You better come down here, Mr. L!”
I walk down the steps. At first, the basement seems impossibly bright. As soon as I reach the bottom of the steps, I realize why.
The entire floor is covered in marijuana plants that reach chest-high. The ceiling is lined with sun lamps.
“Impressive,” I say, and then, “I know absolutely nothing about this.”
“We’re going to have to confiscate your house, Mr. L.”
There is no argument. Even though I know nothing about it I am clearly cultivating a drug field in my basement.
“Yes, of course. Will you be taking everything else in the house, also?”
“Well, we’ll be taking all of this marijuana.”
“I see.”
We all go upstairs. The man in charge makes a few calls with my phone. The others periodically shoot accusing looks at me as I struggle to move the couch out of the house. This task is made all the more difficult because of my swelling. I get the couch out to the curb and sit down on it, homeless, both my back and my balls hurting immeasurably.
I can't resist checking on my condition so I stand up and glance down into my pants. Amazingly, my underwear is stuffed with the marijuana leaves. The men are coming out of the house, the man in charge tossing the keys up in the air and catching them. They stand at the curb and make casual chit-chat until a bus comes and they all board.
They come back later that night with their wives, girlfriends and children. The next day a moving van brings all their stuff over. They leave the house every morning smelling like pot. People of all ages visit the house at all hours.
Two days later, the garbage man comes and tells me he has to take the couch. “It’s on the curb,” he says. I reach down into my pants and hand him the marijuana, moist from being in my crotch for days.
“Please, one more week,” I plead.
Blood
We go see a movie called Bloodfest. The title is horribly misleading and it ends up being a four-hour documentary of people with all different ethnic backgrounds donating blood. Midway through, my date turns and starts making out with the man on her right. I tug on her sleeve and tell her she’s confused. A woman behind us shushes me.
Fatigued, we exit the theater onto the bright city street. From behind my date, I notice a large red blotch on the back of her skirt. I tap her on the shoulder and point to her behind. Lightning fast, she throws a right hook at my face. I stumble backward, lose my footing, and collapse onto the street. Once I can focus again, I look up at her. She has discovered the stain. “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry,” she says before coming over and lending a hand, helping me up. She then sticks her hand down the front of her skirt, bringing it back out and smelling her fingers. “Yep, that’s blood all right,” she says. “Damn, I don’t have a san nap!”
I am briefly taken aback by her crudity until I remember. “Here,” I say, reaching for my wallet. “I've got something.” I pull a pad from my wallet, warm and smooshed. She snatches it away.
“Oh, God, thank you,” she says.
Amazed once again, I watch as she pulls down her skirt and underwear in the middle of the sidewalk. I see an old couple walking out of the theater and I rush to shield them from my date, blocking their view with my expansive coat. “I liked the part where that Cuban fellow has a crisis of conscience when he realizes he can’t go through with the donation because he is getting over a cold,” the old woman says. The man casts a cold, suspicious glance in my direction.
“Hi there!” I shout, not knowing what else to say. He grabs his wife a little tighter and they move closer to the road.
“All ready,” my date says.
Relieved, I put my coat back on. I look at her and shake my head. She has merely used the device to mop up some of the excess blood and now has it fastened to her wrist like a bracelet.
“You're hopeless,” I laugh.
Walking away, I notice she has hiked her skirt up in order to hide the stain beneath her shirt and now her buttocks are practically hanging out... but I can’t see the stain. I think about letting her borrow my long coat, its hem drifting just millimeters above the sidewalk, and then think better about it.
Fatigued, we exit the theater onto the bright city street. From behind my date, I notice a large red blotch on the back of her skirt. I tap her on the shoulder and point to her behind. Lightning fast, she throws a right hook at my face. I stumble backward, lose my footing, and collapse onto the street. Once I can focus again, I look up at her. She has discovered the stain. “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry,” she says before coming over and lending a hand, helping me up. She then sticks her hand down the front of her skirt, bringing it back out and smelling her fingers. “Yep, that’s blood all right,” she says. “Damn, I don’t have a san nap!”
I am briefly taken aback by her crudity until I remember. “Here,” I say, reaching for my wallet. “I've got something.” I pull a pad from my wallet, warm and smooshed. She snatches it away.
“Oh, God, thank you,” she says.
Amazed once again, I watch as she pulls down her skirt and underwear in the middle of the sidewalk. I see an old couple walking out of the theater and I rush to shield them from my date, blocking their view with my expansive coat. “I liked the part where that Cuban fellow has a crisis of conscience when he realizes he can’t go through with the donation because he is getting over a cold,” the old woman says. The man casts a cold, suspicious glance in my direction.
“Hi there!” I shout, not knowing what else to say. He grabs his wife a little tighter and they move closer to the road.
“All ready,” my date says.
Relieved, I put my coat back on. I look at her and shake my head. She has merely used the device to mop up some of the excess blood and now has it fastened to her wrist like a bracelet.
“You're hopeless,” I laugh.
Walking away, I notice she has hiked her skirt up in order to hide the stain beneath her shirt and now her buttocks are practically hanging out... but I can’t see the stain. I think about letting her borrow my long coat, its hem drifting just millimeters above the sidewalk, and then think better about it.
A Self-Contained Walk
It is a grainy black and white day.
Mr. Gravel’s small house sits back a long driveway. They call it a lane in the country. He steps out of his house and looks at the low hill horizon. He walks down the steps of his front porch. There is a man with sunglasses on doing pushups in the front lawn. Mr. Gravel pays no attention to this as he heads for the lane. He has to get the mail. The box is way down off the road.
To entertain himself for this long walk, he raises his arms above his head, fingers extended, and begins hooting. He hoots with each step he takes. “Hoo, hoo, hoo.” The gravel crunches beneath his feet.
About halfway down the lane, he gets excited because he can see a large package bulging from the mailbox. He has always been afraid someone will steal his mail. He hopes this is the package he has been expecting.
He breaks into a light jog, his arms still extended toward the sky. Within no time at all, he is at the mailbox, his hands on the thick brown package, greedily pulling it out. Too excited to carry the package all the way back to his house, he rips it open.
He pulls the gun out, letting the bubble-lined paper fall around his feet. He tosses the pistol from hand to hand, feeling its heft. Mr. Gravel smiles knowingly. He is pleased. Placing the cold barrel of the gun against his forehead, he pulls the trigger, thinking that it’s so cold because it’s been outside all day.
His head erupts.
A dying spray of red against the black and white day.
Mr. Gravel’s body staggers before falling to the pavement of the road. The neighbor’s dog, always loose, wanders over and begins licking at the wound.
Mr. Gravel’s small house sits back a long driveway. They call it a lane in the country. He steps out of his house and looks at the low hill horizon. He walks down the steps of his front porch. There is a man with sunglasses on doing pushups in the front lawn. Mr. Gravel pays no attention to this as he heads for the lane. He has to get the mail. The box is way down off the road.
To entertain himself for this long walk, he raises his arms above his head, fingers extended, and begins hooting. He hoots with each step he takes. “Hoo, hoo, hoo.” The gravel crunches beneath his feet.
About halfway down the lane, he gets excited because he can see a large package bulging from the mailbox. He has always been afraid someone will steal his mail. He hopes this is the package he has been expecting.
He breaks into a light jog, his arms still extended toward the sky. Within no time at all, he is at the mailbox, his hands on the thick brown package, greedily pulling it out. Too excited to carry the package all the way back to his house, he rips it open.
He pulls the gun out, letting the bubble-lined paper fall around his feet. He tosses the pistol from hand to hand, feeling its heft. Mr. Gravel smiles knowingly. He is pleased. Placing the cold barrel of the gun against his forehead, he pulls the trigger, thinking that it’s so cold because it’s been outside all day.
His head erupts.
A dying spray of red against the black and white day.
Mr. Gravel’s body staggers before falling to the pavement of the road. The neighbor’s dog, always loose, wanders over and begins licking at the wound.
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