To Sire, With Love (Part VIII)

“What the FUCK did you just say?” Larry asked.

“Sam wants me to fuck her silly and give her a child,” I responded. “What’s so crazy about that?”

“Look at you,” Larry stated. “You’re goddamn disgusting! You’re a short, middle aged, balding, fat guy with diabetes. Plus you’re an alcoholic! You’re stupid, and honestly I can’t find one redeeming quality in you.”

“Like I said, my sperm is potent. One good poke is all she needs!”

Larry sat down at the edge of his bed and began rubbing his face. “Okay, so you knock her up. Then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you not gonna have anything to do with the child?”

I thought for a moment. “Well, her and her husband will take care of it. No big deal,” I shrugged. “Besides, I already have 11 kids .”

Larry stood up and slapped me across the face. “Are you not thinking through any of this?!” he screamed. “You’re in love with this woman. You’re not gonna be able to fuck her, give her a child, then walk away! If you think you can, then you’re a goddamn fool!”

I got up off the ground and straightened myself out. “Perhaps you’re right,” I said.

Larry didn’t respond.

I walked up to the window and gazed out at the parking lot. “I’ve always been a loser,” I lamented. “I’ve never felt anything for anybody. I’m tired; tired of being lonely, tired of feeling like I don’t belong anywhere. I just need one good thing to go my way.”

“She’s got a husband, you dolt,” Larry said.

I turned around to face him. “Oh yeah,” I replied. “I guess I’m just too horny to think straight.”

Larry nodded. “Your dick don’t work, correct?”

“No, sadly.”

He took a deep breath and began to confide in me. “I told you once that my dick does work,” he said. “But that was a lie.”

“You got a dead dick too?” I ask.

“Shh…keep your voice down fool!” he said. Then he reached into his sock and pulled out a small blue pill. “Do you know what this is?” he asked.

“Your blood pressure meds?”

“No, dipshit! It’s a Cialis! My last one.”

“What’s that?” I shrugged.

“It’s a boner pill,” he explained. “You take this pill and you’ll wanna fuck anything that moves. But if you have an erection that lasts more than four hours, call a doctor.” Then he flicked me the pill. “It’s yours. I won’t be needing it anymore.”

“Larry, I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Just shut the fuck up and go empty out your balls for Christ sake.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

To Sire, With Love (Part VII)

“I’m in an open relationship,” Sam explained to me on her break.

“Hmm,” I said with some disinterest as I gnawed on some fish sticks. Then it occurred to me. “Wait, what? What does that mean?”

“It means that my husband and me are free to sleep with other people. In fact, he’s probably being sucked off by his mistress as we speak.”

I scratched my head. “I don’t get it,” I replied. “So Are you fucking anyone else?”

“Well, not exactly,” Sam paused. “I’m usually too busy working here.”

I was so confused. “Does he at least wrap it up?” I asked. “What if he picks up STDs or knocks someone up?”

“My husband raw dogs hookers all the time,” Sam said. “Besides, he fires blanks anyway. We’ve tried to have children before but the doctors say his guys don’t swim. He’s as dry as the Sahara.”

“Shit,” I answered. “That’s the exact opposite problem I have. I have eight children and have only had sex eight times. Doctors have called me a marvel of modern science. Too bad my dick don’t work.”

“Really?” asked Sam. “Can you at least cum?”

“Oh yeah, I can cum soft,” I explained. “I’m like a goddamn faucet, I mean, I can BLAST some ropes if you know what I mean. Doctors tell me that I need to jerk it every so often or else my balls will swell up to where I can’t sit down. But I don’t know, I haven’t been horny since Malcolm Butler had that interception in Super Bowl XLIX.”

“So you haven’t came in nearly 10 years?” Sam asked. I could see the wheels turning in her head.

“Nope. I’m like a ticking time bomb. Next time I bust, it will be a sea of jizz. That’s why I can’t sleep on my stomach.”

Sam put down her can of Diet Coke and grabbed me by the lapels. “Pop a viagra and fuck me!” she ordered. “I wanna drown in that sea of backlogged semen!”

“Woah woah woah!” I retorted. “Where can I find a viagra at THIS hour?”

Sam cooled her jets and took a deep breath. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry if I was a little pushy.”

As she sighed, I took her by the hand. “Look,” I explained, “I get it, you want a child but you can’t because of your husband’s deadass balls,” I said. “And I’ve got all the sperm you need and then some. But I have had sex in years. I don’t even remember where to put it!”

Sam nodded her head.

“So please,” I continued, “give me some time to think about this. Mind you, the answer is yes because I’m filled to the brim with semen and I am about to erupt at any moment. But I need time to process this.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

To Sire, With Love (Part VI)

“Don’t you know how to talk to women?” Larry asked.

“I guess not,” I said.

“I knew you were stupid,” Larry added, “but holy fuck, you must be some goddamn reta…”

“Watch your language!” I interrupted, “I suffer from multiple learning disabilities, social disabilities, and various cognitive impairments. I also take numerous medications and I’m unable to remain steadily employed which is why I’m homeless. So have some fucking compassion, you imbecile!”

“Forgive me Donny,” he apologized. “But I know what it’s like to fuck things up with the love of your life. You need to go back and talk to her…”

“What’s the point?” I asked. “I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. Besides, I don’t know if she’s the love of my life or just an infatuation to distract me from my shitty life.”

“Then just apologize to her. Tell her that you’re a moron and you don’t know how to talk to people. Trust me, you don’t want to leave this place wondering ‘what if?’ Besides, this is a homeless shelter. People shit, piss, and masturbate in the hallways all the time. You can’t make things anymore awkward.”

“What would you know about my predicament?” I ask.

“Trust me,” Larry curiously reiterated, “now go apologize.”

It was dinner time. I noticed Sam on the other end of the cafeteria passing out trays. So I stood up, straightened myself out, and shuffled towards her direction. As I got closer, I noticed she was purposely not looking my way. I shoved my hands in my pockets and bashfully began to speak. “So,” I said, “I’m sorry for making things awkward while you were unclogging my toilet.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam replied, still not making eye contact.

“Well I know that I have trouble talking to people. And your job is difficult enough, so the last thing I wanted to do was make it harder.”

Sam removed her disposable rubber gloves and exhaled. “I appreciate your concern,” she said to me. “But I understand where you’re coming from. This probably isn’t the best time of your life.”

“Well, no it isn’t,” I said. “But I wasn’t always a hobo. I did attend Northeastern and was a successful real estate broker for many years. I just fell into some bad habits. First it was alcohol, and then it was sports. If only…” my voice began to crack, “if only I knew what sorry sack of shit I would become. I don’t want to be here, ya know? I thought I just had a sure fire bet. I thought Justin Fields was certainly going to be league MVP!”

Sam silently gazed at me as I wiped away a tear. I could sense her trying to find the right words. “I know how you feel,” she finally spoke. “I also thought he’d be league MVP.”

I was astonished. “So you know my pain?” I asked.

“Yes. I’m from Chicago. Unfortunately,” she explained. “Look Donny, if you want to talk some more, my break is in an hour.”

“Really? Okay, I look forward to it!”

“I just have to call my husband first.”

Fuck, I thought.

TO BE CONTINUED…

To Sire, With Love (Part V)

“Don’t worry, Ms. Malone. I’ll unclog this toilet,” I told Sam at the start of her shift. “Sorry for not courtesy flushing.”

“That’s sweet of you for offering, Mr. Watkins,” she said. “But for legal purposes, guests at the Salvation Army shouldn’t do any of the work. It’s okay. This happens all the time.”

“It was actually Larry’s ass cheeks that caused this to happen. Not mine,” I explained. “He said it had something to do with the coffee.”

“I understand.”

I stood around and stammered a bit as I watched her plunge shit down the toilet. The smell was unbearable. “So,” I finally uttered, “I enjoyed your poem this morning. Do you write a lot?”

Her face instantly lit up. “Yes! I actually have tons of poems! I can read them to you sometime!”

“Oh no no no. That’s okay,” I said.

“Oh,” Sam sighed.

I instantly felt bad. “No, I didn’t mean it like that,” I said. “I meant that I got expelled from school in the third grade, so I never learned how to appreciate poetry. Yeah…that’s why!”

The toilet then unclogged and all the water rushed to the bottom. “Okay,” Sam said, “I got it fixed. Tell Larry to not use so much toilet paper next time!”

“I’ll let him know,” I responded. “I also want you to know that you’re a saint, Ms. Malone. Mother Teresa is just a pimple on my ass compared to you.”

“That’s very nice of you to say, Mr. Watkins. But really, I’m just doing what any good person would do.”

“Yeah I’d never unclog toilets for a bunch of hobos. That’s for goddamn sure.”

Sam removed her rubber gloves and washed her hands. “Well I hope you have a wonderful night Donny. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Please wait,” I pleaded. “There’s so much more I want to know about you.”

Sam cocked her head. “Like what?”

“I dunno,” I shrugged. “Who’s your favorite Celtics player? Is 4.6 inches enough? Could you ever love a homeless man like me?”

“I don’t think these are appropriate questions, Mr. Watkins.”

“Wait, I’m sorry,” I began to stutter. “Sometimes I say the wrong things. I’m a raging alcoholic, Ms. Malone. I also have a crushing gambling addiction and I owe several mob bosses a lot of money. I haven’t changed my underwear in seven weeks and I don’t use deodorant. I just don’t know how to talk to people!”

“Donny, you’ll get the help you need. I promise,” she replied then quickly stormed away.

“Ms. Malone, I’m in love with you!” I screamed.

TO BE CONTINUED…

To Sire, With Love (Part IV)

“You know what your problem is? You’ve got your head up your ass!” the roommate screamed at me. “You’re not focused! Your eyes are covered in shit, that’s why you see nothing but shit in the world!”

“First off,” I replied, “what the fuck is your name? And secondly, you don’t know anything about me.”

“My name’s Larry…Larry Tops!” he proudly proclaimed. “And I’ve seen enough of your kind to you’s just an asshole. You think you know everything, but you ain’t seen nothin! You’ve never seen the kindness and beauty of the world. You’ve never seen a man raise his, begging for salvation from the wreckage of his life, only to be pulled out by the kindness of strangers. Until you experience that, you’re just a miserable shitheel from Boston.”

“Meaningless ramblings from a deranged hobo,” I replied. “You’re in denial about your own condition and you think New Orleans is gonna save you. That’s pathetic.”

“I’d rather be pathetic than an asshole.”

I shrugged. “Whatever. At least I’ll die honest,” I said. “What time does Sam come in?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because I want to know. That’s why.”

Larry shook his head and began to chuckle. “It ain’t happening for you pal,” he replied. “You heard her up there. She believes in the future. She believes in hope. What would she want with a sorry sack of shit like you?”

“Now who’s the pessimist?” I asked.

Larry guffawed. “I’ll tell you what: how about instead of wasting away here in Boston, you come down to New Orleans. You’ll see what I’m talking about. Forget this place, there ain’t nothin here.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather take a hammer to my ballsack.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

To Sire, With Love (Part III)

The coffee tasted like something scooped out of a Mississippi toilet after thanksgiving. As I watched my roommate shovel the eggs and bacon down his throat, I suddenly lost my appetite. But that’s not why I attended breakfast.

I wanted to see Sam before her shift ended. I sipped on my shit-water as I watched her from afar. She was always busy, helping one bum through some crisis or another. But before 7am struck, she called for the cafeteria’s attention.

“Before I leave,” she stated, “I’d like to read one of my poems.”

There were a few inaudible groans. Most paid her no attention. “Hey everyone! Shut the fuck up!” my roommate shouted.

The cafeteria fell silent.

“Thank you,” Sam said. “This poem is called ‘Hope’. No matter how dark things may seem, tomorrow is a new day.”

She pulled out a sheet of paper, unfolded it, and began reading. “I believe in a future where no man is less than,” she read. “Where no woman is treated like urine; flushed down the drain, like a past that has no name…”

A few in attendance started to shake their heads.

“The future starts with us,” Sam continued. “So jump on the bus; this is the wagon train to the stars, we won’t stop until we reach Mars. So uplift each other’s dreams, let us not fall into despair, like the career of Harry Reems.”

The cafeteria was silent. It was the worst poem we’ve ever heard. But the roommate started to clap the I soon followed. Only the two of us applauded.

“Thanks again,” Sam said. “Enjoy your breakfast. Count your blessings, and I will see everyone tonight.”

I watched her fold the paper back up, place it back in her pocket, and depart the auditorium. While she may not have been much of a poet, I counted my blessings alright. I awaited for her return.

TO BE CONTINUED…

To Sire, With Love (Part II)

She laid the shit and piss stained sheets over the moldy mattress. She was as plain as the prairies of Kansas. The words failed to come when she asked me if I needed anything else.

“A bourbon if you got it,” I said to her.

“There’s no drinking on the premises, Mr. Watkins,” she replied.

“Please, can you call me Donny?”

“Donny, pleased to meet you. I’m Sam.”

“Short for Samantha?”

“Just Sam. My parents abandoned me at the hospital so I’m named after the doctor who delivered me.”

Sam…a name that forever be etched onto my heart. “What’s your last name?” I asked.

“Malone. Sadly.” Sam then handed me the last bit of toiletries. “Breakfast starts at 6am,” she continued. “Please get some rest, Donny. I promise you that things will get better from here.”

“Will you still be here in the morning?” I ask.

“My shift ends at 7. So please wake up early. I hope to see you there.”

I nodded. “I promise I’ll be up.”

Sam gave a slight smile and departed the room. I didn’t bother stripping off my ratty ass clothes before I climbed into bed. I laid there for awhile thinking of Sam’s smile and soft voice before I dozed off. My roommate ripped a loud fart and I was fast asleep.

It was around 5 am when my roommate awoke. He was humming the words to some godawful song. “Lick it up! Lick it up! Ahhhhaaaahhhahhhh!” he shouted.

“Hey buddy, do you mind?!” I yelled.

“Yeah I do mind!” he replied as he was putting on his shit-covered boots. “It’s a new day. My dick still gets hard. And I got $12 in my pocket!”

“I have bad news for you,” I said, “you’re at the Salvation Army. That means your life is in the ditch! And Kiss sucks ass!”

“YOUR life may be in the ditch. But in three days I’ll be out of this shithole and in New Orleans.”

“New Orleans is a shithole too.”

“Cheer up, good buddy,” he said as he completed tying his boots. “Do you smell that? That’s the coffee brewing.” Then he farted. “And that’s the smell of the last vestiges of yesterday’s chili dog. I’ll never make that mistake again.”

The smelly roommate stood up, ran a comb through his hair, and took a piss. As he was about to exit, he told me one last thing.

“I’ve got a history lesson for you: Did you know that Bill Clinton’s father drowned in a ditch in Missouri?” he asked. “I can’t think of a worse way to go.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

It’s time (Part III)

“I need a volunteer from the audience,” Paul requested.

Everyone looked at each other, puzzled by the strange presentation. No one stood up. “Are all of you chicken shits? Come on, volunteer goddamnit!” yelled Paul.

The flustered speaker scanned the auditorium for some poor bastard to pick on. Then he found him: a crew-cut jabroni, easily 6’3, with a potbelly poking through his tucked in polo. The man towered over the diminutive Paul. When he reached the stage, he crossed his arms in a defiant gesture. But Paul wasn’t intimidated.

“What’s your name sir?” Paul asked.

“Bill Hickman. Vice President of Development at Eckhart Automotive.”

“I see. And do you have children, Bill Hickman, Vice President of Development at Eckhart Automotive?”

Bill rolled his eyes. “I have two daughters,” he said.

“How old are they?”

“17 and 23.”

“Are they hot?”

“Excuse me?”

“Are. They. Hot?”

Befuddled and offended, Bill looked at the audience and then back towards Paul. “What are you getting at?” he asked.

“Answer the question Bill Hickman, Vice President of Development at Eckhart Automotive. Are your daughters hot? Meaning, would you fuck them?”

“You are one sick son of a bitch!”

“Come on, Bill! We’re both men! Just tell me!”

“I’m not gonna stand here and listen to this shit!” Bill said as he began to storm off stage. Paul was persistent. “They must be uggos then!” Paul taunted.

“One more word out of you mister…”

“It’s doctor!” Paul interrupted. “It’s Doctor Paul Westinghouse! I didn’t spend eight years in college just to be called ‘mister’ by pissants like you!”

“That’s it!”

Bill rushed the stage and punched Dr. Paul Westinghouse in the face. His thick wired framed glasses smashed onto his nose and blood instantly poured out. Laying on the floor, Paul removed the broken frames from his swollen eyes. “Is that the best you got?” the defiant doctor asked Bill. “Your daughter hits harder during foreplay.”

Bill kicked Paul in the mouth, knocking out several teeth. He then dropped to his knees, with Paul between his legs, and began relentlessly whaling on his face.

The audience sat in petrified silence. They looked to the sleeveless guards and then to each other. No one moved a muscle. It was only when Bill began to strangle Paul that a gaggle of audience members interfered.

“I’ll kill you!” Bill screamed as he was pulled away.

Paul struggled to get to his feet. Battered and bruised beyond recognition, he staggered to the podium to hold himself up. After cooling off, Bill began crying in a corner by himself. While everyone was in a state of shock, Paul spat blood onto the carpet and laughed. “Don’t worry, this always happens on the first day,” he assured the frenzied crowd, “please take your seats.”

Right when everyone sat back down, Paul collapsed to the floor. Everyone jumped to their feet again, but two sleeveless guards waltzed up to the stage to bolster him up. “Please be calm,” he continued, “there’s a lesson to be learned here: teamwork. None of us know each other, yet you all rushed to your feet to save me from certain death. We’re meant to work together. Regardless of the circumstances, we will find a way to work together, especially when it involves the certainty of death.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

It’s time (Part I)

Darrel snuck out of bed to take a shit. After he clogged the mistress’s toilet, he received an urgent call from a familiar number. “What are you doing at my house?” the voice angrily asked.

Darrel was tired of the hiding. He knew the jig was up. “I’m fucking your wife, what do you think?” he replied.

After a moment of silence, the voice responded. “I’m coming for you.” Then caller hung up.

For the first time in awhile, Darrel actually felt fear. He could barely get his ass wiped before he heard the front door swing open. “Fuck,” he whispered to himself. He slowly opened the bathroom door and tiptoed towards the back entrance.

“Hold it there buster!” Darrel heard from behind. Startled, he quickly turned around to find the mistress’s husband, also named Darrel, holding a Desert Eagle pistol. “Darrel,” said Darrel, “it doesn’t take much to kill a human being. Don’t you think that Desert Eagle is a little much?”

“Shut your mouth!” Darrel responded. “The only reason I won’t blow your brains across the carpet is because you made me A LOT of money. Your book, My Ass=Your Face, spent 91 weeks on NYT bestseller list. You’re a cash cow. And as my father always told me: never slaughter your cattle in the living room.”

“So you’ll let me keep fucking your wife then?”

Darrel cocked the pistol. “Get the fuck out. I’ll figure out what to do with you later.”

“Yes sir.”

***

“Goddamnit Darrel!” screamed Bob “Big Beef” O’Connell. “You can’t fuck your publisher’s wife!”

“C’mon Big Beef!” retorted Darrel. “You’re my agent. If I wanted a guilt trip, I would’ve spoken to my bartender!

“You need to start thinking with the right head! The publisher is considering dropping you!”

“Jesus, Beef!” Darrel exclaimed. “You can’t let them do that! They know all the skeletons in my closet! Like, literally. I literally have skeletons in my closet that they know about!”

“I spoke to Darrel. He said that fucking his wife was bad enough, but clogging his toilet went a too far. He said that they will keep you on if you attend a sensitivity seminar.”

“Sensitivity seminar? Another one?!”

“Yes. Not one on sexual harassment though. This is a teamwork workshop for big name executives.”

Darrel was beside himself. “You tell Darrel that I’m a writer, AN ARTIST! Not a goddamn suit!” he shouted.

“Darrel says that he wants team players. Now the seminar is three days long. NO ALCOHOL. So deal or no deal?!”

Darrel rubbed his forehead and ran his fingers through his hair. “Hand me a fuckin pin,” he finally ordered, then he begrudgingly filled out the application.

After storming out of his agent’s office, Darrel pulled out his phone and dialed up the other Darrel. Unfortunately it went straight to voicemail. “Listen here mother fucker,” he stated in his message, “I’m getting tired of these boring ass seminars. And for that, I’m gonna fuck your wife again!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Jack Hardcock: The Wrath of God (Part IX)

“At least carry a sidearm Dad!” Jack advised his dad.

“No!” Rod retorted. “That’s so uncivilized! AND I’m a pacifist!”

“It’s probably not a good idea to attack an entire cartel with only samurai swords!”

Jose had enough and threw the tequila bottle against the wall. “The whole thing is a trap!” he screamed.

“No it’s not!” Rod replied.

“It’s definitely a trap,” Jack added.

“Why would they lead us into the United States?” Jose continued. “If we cross the border and kill a bunch of guys, then we’re subject to US law! How do we know that the authorities aren’t watching us?”

Rod picked up his sword and began twirling it around. “We have them on the ropes,” he said. “This might be our last opportunity to finish what we started, Jose.”

“Then we should lead them back across the border and attack them on Mexican soil!” Jose replied.

“No!”

“Dad, if we kill ‘em on Mexican soil then we can get away with this scott free!” Jack pleaded.

“No! Noooooooooooo!”

Rod threw his samurai sword into the air and with one swift kick, he broke the sword in two. Jack and Jose stood in awed silence before Jose picked up the two broken pieces and shook his head. “You’re marching towards your death, Rod,” Jose said, “and I want no part of it. Where will this madness end?”

Jose dropped the pieces on the ground and began walking towards the door. Rod looked out the window into the barren New Mexican landscape. “This is my last cry, as my last blood flows,” he uttered to himself. “Then, O my Tyrians, besiege with hate His progeny and all his race to come: No love, no pact must be between our peoples.”

Jose stopped in his tracks. “What the hell are you talking about now?”

“The Aenied,” Rod said.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m an old man, Jose. I didn’t choose this life, and neither did you. Our whole lives, we’ve understood the risks but we rolled the dice anyway. Now’s not the time to back down. We don’t play defense. Now’s the time to attack! Right here, right now! NOW’S the time to make them pay for what they’ve done!”

“Fuckin’ A!” Jack seconded.

TO BE CONTINUED…