New Story.
2007-07-22 10:12:50 ET

So I'd come home from work and I'm tired and I can feel the weight of the shirt on my shoulders and the heat on my face and I look around my room and it's all the same day in and day out like some oppressive weight and I suddenly feel very old. I stumble into the bathroom and crank a knob so that the faucet starts to run cold water from the underground and with weary eyes I look at myself in the mirror. I am old, I remember. Seventy four year old eyes stare back at my face.

How did I get here? I think it was the time I was messing around with a microwave. There was a pop and suddenly I was in the body of some senior citizen that lived across the street. I don't know where his mind went but mine sure as hell couldn't go back to my body. It was a corpse, dead of electrocution. The room smelling of burned flesh and hair. Smoke rising from my charred fingertips.

I had a hell of a time explaining all this to my job and the government. My boss looked at me real funny and the people down at the DMV made me sign a boatload of forms. Turns out they even had a form for consciousness transference. It's DMV0811 and it's three pages long. I was the first person ever to fill that one out according to the girl behind the desk. She looked nice. I cursed my withered body.

I went back to work the next week after. It took me that long to get properly adjusted to my body. I say adjusted because I don't think I'll ever get used to it. Christ, the first day I had trouble wiping my own ass. My arms were a little longer and a little weaker. None of my clothes fit. I had to rob the poor sap's closet just so I could put on something decent to go outside. And learning to breathe differently was the worst. I'm not used to wheezing like that. I think one of the guy's lungs is on the way out. And, dear God, my dick...

So, like I said, I went back to work. They put me on easy duty for a bit. They had me repairing things customers brought in. All sorts of miscellaneous junk. Stuff we wouldn't even touch in the field. Old vacuum cleaners, black and white television sets, hell I even swapped out a motor on a blender. Who in their right mind sends in a blender for repair? It's a freaking blender! Things like this could drive a man to drink only I didn't know the status of the former occupant's liver.

After a few days they got tired of me hanging around. My boss Joe said it's the smell. I smelled like talcum powder and everyone said I reminded them of a baby's ass. You know, that perfumed smell that lets you know the little bastard just crapped his pants and had mommy clean him? God damn, the previous guy must've slept in it or something. Sixteen showers couldn't get rid of the smell. May be he ate a jar and it was oozing out through my pores. God only knows...

So there I was, in the field, carrying a briefcase full of tools. I barely walked and, instead, took the bus everywhere. It was always crowded and I always had to fight fat ladies for a seat. "I'm old, lady! Jesus! Have some fucking respect! I'm your fucking elder!"

"Mister, I don't care if you're the fucking president! I'm staying in my seat!"

"Lady, look. I've got a weak fucking bladder and if you won't get up well, all this rattling and shaking, and swerving and turning might just make me take a leak. And seeing as how you're sitting down right in front of me I think that little leak might have to go right between those two huge melons that you call breasts. Though, if you don't mind me saying, they look like you stuffed two dwarfs in your dress."

"Why, you sick son of a bitch..."

"GET THE FUCK UP, LADY!!!"

Every goddamn day. I'm surprised I didn't have a heart attack from all the fighting and swearing. I wish this guy used a cane so I could go all Singapore on those assholes. Good fucking God!

Not that the customers were any better.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"Look, lady, I'm fixing your goddamn toaster. It's not rocket science, you know? Now if you'll leave me alone I'll have this thing frying your bread in a few minutes."

"You can't talk to me like that! I'm paying you for this! The customer always comes first!"

"FUCK!"

Or some days you'd get guys who think they can do the job better than you.

"You're doing it wrong."

"That's what I told your parents when they were fucking in my yard and they had you. Guess I was right, eh?"

"Do you want to die?"

"Look, asshole. You can threaten me all you want. Just remember - I'm old. Look at me. I'm not afraid of death. It's like my asshole. I can't see it but I know it's always there, laying in wait. Now you can go ahead and beat me until my eyes roll up and my heart stops but I fucking swear I'll shit all over your brand new thousand dollar carpet before the paramedics get here. Now let me fix your fucking refrigerator in peace you cocksucking cornholer!"

I almost got fired. Quite a few times. It's a good thing that I know what I'm doing 'cause otherwise I'd be laid off. Oh, and I could always sue for age discrimination. I'm old! Gimme gimme gimme!

Then one day I walked into my room and realized that I wasn't feeling old because of my body. I was feeling old because everything I saw, heard, and felt was the same damn things over and over. Fuck, and I didn't even know how long I had to live. I could die of a heart attack at any moment. Hell, when I found out I was stuck in this corpse of a body forever I went on a crazed and decadent hot dog binge until I threw up like a supermodel before sex. It's like I transferred all my fear and hatred and anger onto half-digested kosher sausages and exorcised them out on a sidewalk at three in the morning. After that I felt a little better about myself. That's when I tried to masturbate.

I don't know if it's the age or the fact that I never really belonged in this body to begin with but let's just say that my compass didn't point north, if you know what I mean. And I think you know what I mean if you just read that last part as MY DICK WOULDN'T STAY UP! So now not only was a girlfriend out of the question (who wants to fuck Mr. Wrinkles?) but, fuck, I couldn't even jack off! No wonder old people are so bitter. All that sexual tension... Jesus. I wonder why they don't explode. May be that's why their minds snap.

Ah fuck. There's always the blue pill. And while in my aged state they'll never call me a Casanova they could always refer to me as JACKHAMMER. I kinda like the sound of that. SEVENTY FOUR YEAR OLD JACKHAMMER FOUND BANGING SCHOOLGIRLS IN COUNTY PARK. I can only dream of headlines like that.

I'm old, I'm tired, and I haven't experienced anything new in what seems like weeks... or months... or may be even years before my little incident. I needed a vacation. So I caught a bus to Jersey.

Sixteen hours later I caught a bus back. I am never again going back to New Jersey.

The next weekend I went to Atlantic City. I don't know why. I just thought "Hey, where do old people go?" and a part of me thought back - "Atlantic City." So I thought "Why not?"

Not one for slots nor roulette I've set my ass behind a blackjack table and told the dealer to hit me. He hit me. Hard. I went down for the count and on the count of three rose back to my feet, kneed him in the balls, and asked quizzically "Why the fuck did you do that for?" It took him a while to respond. He was rolling around on the floor, gritting teeth, hands on nuts, knees up in the fetal position.

I kicked him in the kidney and asked him again. This time he looked up and seethed through clenched teeth "You look just like my grandfather!"

"What? He touch you or something?" I smirked.

"Yes."

"Oh." Who the fuck was this guy? "Well, I'm not him. Now stop fucking around and give me my cards or I swear I'll touch you myself. And by touch I mean kick your balls in as a hard as I can."

He didn't answer, just kept rolling about on the floor. I didn't have time for this. I got up and tried my luck at the slots. I hate games of chance. Odds are you'll lose. In a casino the odds are you'll lose plus one. What the hell, I had nothing to lose but my livelihood. I put a token in and pulled the handle. The wheels started turning. I suddenly realized what I was doing. The token was the sperm, the handle was the dick, and I was looking to make babies. "Come on! Daddy's looking to get lucky tonight!" Three cherries. A sign from God. Daddy was gonna get lucky tonight.

The water broke and the machine started to shoot out five dozen coins. Sixty bucks. Not bad. I thought back to my baby analogy. This was the casino equivalent of an orphanage. It's good to have but no one wants it. Oh well. It was a nice stack of change in my pocket. I got up and was on my way. Thoughts were streaming in my head. Hell, with all these coincidences I might just be on a roll. Who knows? If this keeps up I might even get a blowjob. If I don't have a heart attack first. It's just about as much excitement as an old man can take. But, fuck, I'm seventy four years old. I deserve to have my knob polished!

2007-06-17 09:52:51 ET


















2 comments

Curious...
2007-06-07 19:09:45 ET

Does anyone still read this?
6 comments

OMG EMO!!!
2007-06-06 15:24:46 ET

He always kept an ace in the hole until he lost a card in his rectum. He done searched for it for an entire week what with his hand all lubed up with vaseline and stuck up feeling around in there. Didn't help much that he was doing it at a public bus depot and all the children with their mothers were staring at him eyes and mouths agape MOMMY WHAT IS THAT??? OHMAHGAWD, HONEY, DON'T LOOK!!! OHMAHGAWD!!!

On the seventh day he gave up figuring he'll shit it out. Only thing after that he didn't shit for weeks. He just kinda went on and swelled up some. Ten pant sizes later he went to the doctor who took an emergency X-Ray. Yep, it's just like I've suspected said the doctor pushing his spectacles back onto the bridge of his concentration-wrinkled nose. Your ace in the hole gone done and plugged up your bung hole. Well, doc, ain't there somethin' you could do? No, not really, I suppose it's all up to you know. You've got to play your hand. What's that mean, doc? But the doctor had disintegrated into thin air.

So he went back to the card club, sat his swollen ass on the club stool, pinched a lit cigar between his teeth and said let's see what we got boys. Long story done up all real short he lost and when they went for his money he done gone and said Now lookit here, boys, I went and spend mah last cent on the doctor!

Well they were having none of that so they grabbed him by the shoulders, pressed him down against the stool, and beat the living stuffing out of him. They counted all the gut punches and got up to twenty nine and then tried one more. And on gut punch number thirty they heard a POP and the ace came flying out along with a month's worth of gut gravy. Needless to say the gas gone done nearly killed everyone at the place and he came crawling out all weak like outside onto the dust road where he saw the doctor who reassembled himself just for the spectacle. Ye fuggun bassid said he with broken teeth but the doc just smiled and said lemme tell you somethin' boy, that sure ain't no BULLSHIT!

Then everyone laughed.

I'm gonna be an old man.
2007-06-06 15:16:25 ET

I know one day I'll be an old man. I have plans for that.
I will be a dirty old man.
I'll whistle at and hit on half naked sixteen year olds as they pass by me while I sit on my porch.
I'll hang around liberal arts colleges pretending to be some mad genius with cynical tales of bitter life. College girls eat that stuff up.
I'll have an 18 year old girlfriend.
I encourage this because I'm investing in my future.

When I'm gonna be an old man I'm gonna have fists of steel.
A hundred knuckle pushups a day when I'm 75.
I'll eat broccoli by the pound.
And I'll drink me my good blood red wine.

I'll be an old man. I'll have the ability to make little children cry with my steely stare.
I will have that power.
When I'll give them the look I'll show up as a 75 year old Stalin. Cold, calculating, and not quite right in the mind.
Everyone else will think me harmless, silly grampa with his steel fists and an 18 year old girlfriend.
But those goddamn whippersnappers who won't get off my lawn SHALL FEAR MY WRATH!

Why? Because I'm gonna be an old man!

The Bad Touch.
2007-06-06 14:56:46 ET

"You can't do that! These are orphans!"
He was only half listening and half thinking back to that time when he sat inside a portable toilet box and touched himself with the Bad Touch. He'd left the door slightly ajar and any tourists who opened it up thinking it to be empty were suddenly met with an onset of madness which left them either catatonic or in constant shrieking on the parkwalk. Within a half hour he had built up a sizeable crowd comprised of half mutes and half shriekers but he didn't care what he had. He had the Bad Touch. And it was bad. And infectious. And that's why, he remembered, he was standing in the orphanage.
"But I really want one. It's cold in my house and I get lonely."
"Sir, these are children. They aren't pets!"
"I didn't say I wanted a pet. I just get lonely that's all. And cold. I'm not gonna fuck with them. I'll just hang them from my ceiling fan like a light fixture. They can hang and keep me warm and I could speak to them face to face. Do you have any I could hang?"
"No!"
"By the neck."
"My God, these are children we're talking about! Children! How can you not understand that?!!"
"Well, what I understand is that you have a severe problem with overcrowding. Look at me. You might not see it at first but I truly am a blessing in disguise."
"I highly doubt it."
"Listen to me. You've got something I need. I've got something you need."
"And what's that?"
"A solution. You've got hundreds of wild, hungry faces reaching out for you with their hungry claws everyday. Obtuse bellies and varicose eyes. Scrawny limbs and broken torsos. Who wants em? Hell, that's why they're all here. The unwanted. I can take them away. I know how you work. Each child gets grabbed up you get a little commission. Well, let me tell you, I get mighty cold. And I ain't one to let a child hang on the lamp for long. No. I need many, many faces. I'll let you in on a little something. I've got the Bad Touch. You hear me? They ain't just making me warm. They're taking my cold away. I'm giving it to them. That's the last thing they'd feel before the neck snaps back. Like a bramble rolling down the spine and suddenly the prickly shiver explodes and they either scream or go quiet. And the ones that scream don't do it for long."
"You're sick."
"I've got its germs, if that's what you mean. So it's a deal?"
Silence. Then an awkward handshake and fear scratching the backs of his eyes.
***
"Sir?"
"Yes, madam?"
"Sir, I would like to complain about the room next to mine. I'm paying good money to stay in a five star hotel and the last thing I would expect is that.... that smell!"
"Smell, m'am?"
"It's ungodly! Hideous! Repulsive! I demand that you go in there and whatever it is I WANT IT OUT!"
"I won't lie to you, m'am. It's feces."
"What!?"
"Mister Feeces. He's staying in that room for the next few weeks. He is a great artist."
Pause.
"Perhaps... perhaps you'd like to meet him?"
"Why, of course not! Not with that smell!"
"Oh I assure you m'am that's probably nothing. We've had incidents with sewage backing up into the ventilation shafts. I'll have one of our maintenance men look into it. I assure you that the room next to you is perfectly fine."
"I don't believe you."
"Well then let me show you. And then you'll also have a chance to meet Mr. Feeces."
"Fine. But if this keeps up I'm leaving!"
"Yes, m'am."
They walk up the stairs. The stench gets stronger.
A key is displayed and the door opens slowly.
"Good God!" and the madame is shoved into the room the door slamming shut behind her.
"Hey, baby!"
"What is this? Who are you?"
"I've got the Bad Touch. You want some germs in you, baby? I've got a dickload! Let me touch you with my god hand!"
"No! No!"
She stumbles backwards and hits the orphan hanging by a noose from the ceiling lamp. Eyes go glassy. Incoherent mumbling. "Dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead."
A thunderlike rumbling and the naked orphan corpse starts shitting out what look like big brown hairy coconuts.
"Dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead."
The coconuts sprout roots and split open to reveal green mucus and mush which envelopes itself and rises up in the form of a man the head of which splits into eyes, a nose, a mouth, ears. It raises a limb - a sharp edge branch covered in poison ivy leaves and thorns. It runs through the madame.
Silence.
"Who are you?"
"I am the world's first anal chia pet. Plants are immune to your viruses. Your germs do nothing for us. The Bad Touch doesn't work on us. However, our germs work on you."
Mister Feeces shrieks.
"Yes, that's it. You ever seen a tree penis?"
Shrieking.
"Last thing you ever see."

It's a gas gas gas.
2007-05-29 09:22:35 ET



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