Monday, November 30, 2009

The Beard Curse

"May thy beard be consumed by dandruff and scabs. May thy beard crackle and sway in your slightest rancid breath. May thy beard become infested with the foul worms of the Earth, the stinging insects of the sky, and all that which creepth in the oceans unlit depths. May thy beard blacken and turn to ash with your every prevarication. May thy beard never know the sweet pressure of a woman's thighs or the sweeter nurselings of a babe in arms. May thy beard whither for all eternity.

Let your wizened and ill-haired face forever be a mark of calumny upon thee."

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Monday, November 16, 2009

"she spread her legs so wide, I could see her liver"

Xeones rolled off the bed and onto the hotel room floor. All his teeth felt loose and his bulbospongiosus muscle spasmed against a full bladder. The room smelled like shit and Tang and rancid spunk.

“Where am I,” he thought. “Where are my clothes,” he thought. “Why not go ahead and vomit just to get it over with,” he thought. He rolled off of his left arm, trapped under him when he instinctively cupped his genitals to protect against the fall. They were sticky and his testicle felt drained.

A guttural, bubbling queef sounded from the bed as its occupant rolled over. Xeones scrambled to the bathroom to vomit in the toilet. With every shuttering heave, more came back to him. The limo ride. The party. The key tucked into his tuxedo’s cummerbund. Shot after shot of bourbon, sickly sweet and fiery. The key in his hand. Oh, God. Oh, God.

He fell back from the toilet, cracking his head on the lip of the sink. He had to get out. Maybe she was still asleep. He felt the warm tickle of blood worming down his scalp. He crawled past the acid reek of the toilet, afraid to flush it. The light sneaking around the closed curtains was just enough to make out his clothes. On all fours, his anus puckering in the hotel’s freezing air conditioning, he found pants and shirt. Enough to make his escape.

As he reached for the door, she mumbled something. He froze, still naked and holding his clothes. She stirred on the bed. “I didn’t know,” she said. Her small, yet sagging breasts lolled as she rolled over. “I didn’t know it could be like that,” she said, scratching absently at a dark patch of pubic hair populating up to her belly button.

“Uh, yeah, baby,” he said. “I’m going to go get some ice.”

She belched as she reached for her think-rimmed glasses. “Come back to bed. Teach me more.”

“Sure, uh, Rachel. I’ll be right back.”

Thursday, November 12, 2009

The Legend of Weresquatch

It's an old word among my peoples. I sat at my grandfather's knee and heard tales of the fearsome weresquatch. How it would come in the dark, when the moon was full. It would find the huts of the women ripe for child and carry them away into the night. They would return days later, reeking of its musk. Soon they would grow heavy with child. A monster child. It would claw its way from their stomachs, making a noise like glass shattering on slate. The mothers never survived. And the child always was gone whenever someone gathered the courage to go and look for it. A blood trail was all that was left, disappearing into the darkest part of the forest. A son that finds its own father by some bestial instinct. Grandfather said that they had not come in many years, but he still bars the shutters on the full moon. And waits.

The Ayn Rand Diet: The Only Logical Path to Weightloss