Short stories


Sit my nuts on a tee. Select a nine-iron. Smack the sack over the roof, beyond the blackberries, into the homeless camp. Good squirrel bait. Better to give than receive. Give myself, to stop the bleeding, a blowtorch job.

     Stuff my dick in a bottle rocket. Blast the organ off to orbit Saint Peter.

     Reach up in. Yank out the prostate. Feed the catch to a pitching machine. Swing through two. Sweetspot a slider – slug the slop into the next state.

     But I could still rape – rape’s root: SEIZE. Hire a tree surgeon to lop the limbs. Cauterize shoulders and thigh stumps rolling around on a hot plate.

     At least now I can’t procreate, can’t hurt a soul. Except, of course – since I’m still nuts, still a dick, still in a state of Ted Bundy’s quantum pussy – except with all this shit my tongue spatters.

     I do so love words to drop turdlike – screwing sentences received for the trespass of thinking strictly, of dreaming solely, in this our Anguish longwedge!  

Willie Smith

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