Presented for your approval:
A short story.
+ then a poem.
+ then another (somewhat maudlin) short story.
I wrote these down on my 200page Victory pad (made in China) with a Elders VP pen (also made in China).
And then I gave them away.
But before I gave them away, I typed them out.
And here they are. You are now entering... The Twilight Zone.
"I've got to admit, when I walked into the Salvo's second hand store, there were a number of things I thought I'd probably see:
I'm talking scratched Al Jolson LPs.
I'm talking flanellette shirts.
I'm talking copies of "My First Bible" from 1978 with bonus crayoning.
Conversely, there were a number of things I thought I probably wouldn't see:
I'm talking complicated chrome sex toys with names like, "The Widowmaker."
I'm talking Black Sabbath records that order you to kill your parents when you play them backwards.
I'm talking a manilla folder containing an accurate and complete record of the bloodline of Christ.
These are the sorts of things you wouldn't expect to find.
So you can imagine my surprise when I discovered the latter beneath a yellowing stack of well-thumbed Tom Clancy novels.
I was trying to extract a Net Force (it was the one with the German cyber-terrorists) when I accidentally knocked the whole stack over...
And here was this inoccuous yellow folder - unmarked but for a few decade-old coffee stains.
I would have just left it there, but there was something about the way it started to glow... the way it filled my entire body with a sense of heavenly calm.
So I opened it, and there it all was.
The descendents of the J-Man, all the way until the late 80s.
What were the chances?
I took the folder and book up to the old lady at the counter.
"How much for these?"
"Three dollars, dear."
I gave her a fiver and told her to keep the change.
"Oh, thank you so much!" she exclaimed, smiling.
Then she shot me in the neck with a taser.
And that's how I ended up here."
Jerome, my new cellmate, nods in sympathy.
"I hear that, bro," he says, "I found the key to cold fusion in the bottom of a box of cereal, and next think I know, there's a tranquilizer dart sticking in my ass."
A Poorly Written yet Avant Garde Poem.
Normally I'm loathe
to write poetry,
cos it always sounds stupid,
But maybe if I throw in
And a couple of fucks
Like I smashed the fucker's teeth in with a fucking pool cue.
I'll appear badass and
maybe even avant garde
Then women will want
to make out with me
Probably some men too.
The trappings of fame.
But one presses on regardless.
I'll appear on all the right shows.
And wear a beret -
at a jaunty angle
Maybe I should get a heroin addiction?
And a 12 year old Thai whore?
So avant garde.
Rob Howe sat in a chair.
In the corner.
It beat the floor, he figured.
He would have gotten up.
Had a drink.
Chatted to a girl.
But a dull ache in the back of his skull chained him to the chair.
A coolish breeze blew through the window.
Enough to shift some cobwebs.
But not enought to break through the heat.
The clock on the wall was motionless.
Rob stared at it.
It had been working before.
Suddenly the minute hand swung across four notches.
He should get up.
Should get a coffee.
He's just tired.
All he needs is caffeine.
All he needs is nicotine.
All he needs is amphaetamine.
And everything will be fine.
Rob would get up.
And walk across the room.
And swallow that bottle of panadol.
Chase it down with some rum.
And wait for the black shadow of death to envelope him.
But he'd have to get up.
Struggle with the childproof cap.
Someone'd find him before he died.
They'd pump his stomach.
They'd call it a cry for help.
Everyone'd be super nice.
Best just to sit.
Avoid all that hassle.
Rob would get up.
And go to the bathroom.
Surely the sweet release of orgasm would make some difference - lift him from this funk?
But what if all this sudden action gave him a brain aneurysm and he died - pants around his ankles, semen dripping from his hand and pooling on the cold tile?
It was a risk he'd just have to take.
And then he'd go get a fucking drink.