To Sire, With Love (Part I)

Love is in the air (it smells like farts, btw). Plus I’m a “writer” and one thing I haven’t been doing lately is write.

So I’m gonna write a romance story. I’ve done a few of those and they’ve all ended in disaster. But I gotta get back in the game. After all, I haven’t completed a story in nearly a year for fucks sake.

So here we go. We’ll see what happens…

To Sire, With Love by Beau Montana

Everything changed that day. My luck had ran out. I put everything on the Bears Vs Raiders game and the starting quarterback went down in the first quarter.

I lost everything.

My house.

My kids.

My wife.

My pants.

All gone.

“Another bourbon, please,” I ordered the bartender.

He picked up a dirty ass glass and began wiping it down. “What seems to be the problem, Donny?” he asked. I knew he didn’t give a shit.

“Well Tom, my dick don’t work, my hair is gone, and I’m a crippled diabetic. Just get me another drink.”

He shook his head and laid down the glass. “This one’s on the house,” he said.

“Good,” I replied, “cuz I spent my last $10.”

Tom walked away to leave me in my misery. I slowly picked up the glass and sipped on the bourbon trying to extend my last bit of good luck.

Then a gaggle of hooligans waltzed in creating a ruckus. “Hey, can I get a Miller Lite,” one of them politely asked Tom.

“Can you shut the fuck up!” I shouted from across the bar. “I’m trying to get drunk over here!”

“I’m sorry sir,” the kid replied. “I’ll keep my voice down.”

“You know what?” I retorted, “I should beat the shit out of you. Do you know who I am? I’m goddamn Donny Watkins! My social security number is 674-76-1839 and my mother’s maiden name is Thompkins! And I’m in no mood to take your bullshit!”

“Perhaps you should stop drinking, Donny,” Tom interrupted.

“Shut up asshole!” I said. “I run this town, which is Boston by the way! God bless Wade Boggs!”

I was subsequently bounced from the bar and Tom banned me for life. After crying in a dingy alleyway for a few minutes, I knew I had to find a place to sleep. I wondered from one underpass to the next. All the drug dens were booked up.

The last resort was the Salvation Army. I stumbled up to the front desk, my eyes bloodshot and breath reeking of alcohol. “Do you have any identification, sir?” the receptionist asked.

I dug into my pockets to find anything that might say my name. I laid all the contents on the counter and started to rub my face while the receptionist fumbled through the paperwork.

After I lowered my hand, I heard an angelic voice. “We have a bed ready for you, sir,” it said.

That’s when I saw her..

TO BE CONTINUED