[Offensive Story] Tits and Bullets [PART TWO]

[Well, I actually did something with the old story. I did make a change in the first chapter. He was shot in the head instead of the chest. So remember that, folks! Okay! Here is part two]

I’m not a nice guy but I’m not a bad guy. So, when I don’t see a flash of pearly gates waiting for me, I sort of get pissed that I’m going to head to Hell. I mean, come on! I didn’t rape or kill. I only banged one married chick ever and her husband was the one holding the camcorder. No harm, no foul, right?

I don’t see flames or fire or demons though. I don’t see anything. It’s nothingness and I’m floating in it like I’m one of those lazy fucks who spend all day at the water park on an inflatable tire. I don’t even get the luxury of balancing a beer on my stomach while I try to cover up my erection from the girls who skimper on past, giggling and reminding me how out of shape my body is. And I stay in this state for what feels like a minute and an eternity.

Right, I don’t want to sound like an asshole and go post-modern on you but I can’t describe it.

My body goes through all those fun faces of decomposition, wrinkles traveling up my arms as my balls shrivel up into raisons and hide in my rectum. My hair falls out, I have to piss, I don’t have to piss, my skin peals. My body is numb- My body is cold. My body wilts and crumbles and then I’m dust. And now I’m left with my mind and my essence and the darkness. And all that shit knows I’ve only been here for a minute but what used to be my body knows it’s been longer.

Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to bang Tony’s wife after all.

Pain.

The body I don’t have feels pain or an echo of what it supposed to feel like. And it burns. It’s not that subtle burn you get after a careless weekend in Key West. I’m Richard Pryor and I’ve just set myself on fire. I’d run down the street for the hospital if there was a street… or a hospital… and if I had legs and not just memory of legs. I convulse, which is odd because I lack the muscles to do such, but my essence finds a way.

Hurt. My head hurts. Everything hurts. It grows. It consumes me. And I know I’ve transitioned from the darkness to Hell itself.

And then I have eyes again… Eye-lids at least. They open and I’m stuck staring at the ever glowing burn of Hell’s furnace, its flame glowing a sickly blue as the souls of the sinful scream out in anguish, begging me to not free them but simply end them.

Hah, fuck you. I was kidding. I actually find myself staring at ceiling tile.

I need to breathe so I do so, but it comes out more like a greedy slurp for oxygen. I sit up, knocking away some metallic table that had been hovering over me. Lights blind me from the side. I panic. I swing, miss hitting anything, and fall straight off whatever I’m laying on and land on cheap bathroom tile.

Someone screams. It’s not me. I’m too busy trying to breathe.

Mind you, I know I’ve been shot. I know I’ve just experienced some sort of outer body experience. I know I just woke up in some room with shiney lights, cheap tiling, and- By the way- I know I’m naked. So, fuck you very much if you think it’s selfish of me to not give a shit about whoever is screaming.

I let my breath find a resemblance of rhythm before I look up.

The scream is coming for an African American chap in scrubs. His has a solid scream for a guy. Not too high pitched, not too baritone. Call me racist but his scream sort of reminds me of James Earl Jones. And I can tell he’s scared. Hell, I bet he can tell I’m scared. So, we do each other a favor and let the other sort of shit themselves without the bother of questions. At least for a minute.

Fuck my head hurts. I feel my body grow numb and cold, and I’ve gone fetal. I cling to my head and feel my first hint of something wrong. Wetness on my scalp.

I pull my hand back and stare at blood. It’s not crimson honey to confuse me and I don’t take a minute to realize what it is like those dumb shits in literature. My mind is sharp and I know that I’m fucking bleeding. My mind is so sharp, I know it fucking hurts too.

Mister Jones has stopped screaming so I decide too. I scream and cry and try my best to stand. Two out of three isn’t bad.

People are in the room now. Confused. Loud. I feel a hand on my shoulder and I pull away, not wanting it close. Not wanting it to be the Reaper to pull me back to where ever the hell I had come from. The hand returns and I scream again like a mad man.

A needle. I love needles. I used to use them in the early nineties with my business school buds. They always made me feel better and this one didn’t hold an exception. The pain subsides and I’m weightless. Not out, mind you. Just weightless and motionless and painless.

“The motha fucker was dead! I was about to drill into his skull to get the fragments out-“

Way to use ‘motha fucker’ like every cliché in Hollywood.

I want to say this but waking up naked and hearing you’re supposed to be fucking dead is a sobering experience.

I’m on a cart. How’d I get on a cart? I don’t care. I don’t know so I don’t care. Lights flash over head as I’m rolled through a hall and someone is talking to me. Faces flash above me and something is put over my mouth to help me breath.

People are still talking. Someone is trying to assure me that I’m going to be okay.

On TV, doctors are supposed to be hot, right? Yeah, big lie. Let’s just say the lady looking down at me wears her surgical mask well.

Zing.

Unconsciousness. 

[Offensive Story] Tits and Bullets [PART ONE]

[I wrote this a long time ago on a challenge. We were supposed to try to create something off the cuff, regardless of  politics. This was supposed to help us create characters who weren't carbon copies of ourselves. Clearly, I'm not like this guy but it's interesting I found his voice easily, huh? Anyways! Not sure if I ever had anything planned with this... but I had some fun writing it]



The first thing I noticed were her tits.

Perhaps that isn't romantic or charming or, hell, even witty. However, it was the truth.  My eyes fell over the way they seemed to strain against the fabric of what I could only hope to be something red and lacy. Something easy enough to unhook or edible enough to chew off. Possibly  a size or two too small or perhaps just right- I don't know. I'm not really an expert on bras or their sizes. Truth be told, if you asked me what size bras came in,  I would answer "mouthful, handful, or cock wrap".  The point of it all was that her breasts were the first thing I saw.

Noted.

Observed.

They had a bounce to them, a sort of rhythm that could inspire a musical number that would be both true and insulting at the same time. The music would take a shit on the feminist movement, reducing years of fighting for respect to a bug on the glass ceiling that they've grown accustomed to citing. The song wouldn't sing praise about skill or practices that this woman was capable of or talents she might possess. It was simply a ballad of lust that most Neanderthals would 'hoot' and 'holler' towards around their frat boys as they took sips from their 'brewskis' and 'buds'- saying snapping lines such as "This buds for you" or "it's miller times" while they drank away all respect and replaced it with faux-respect that they used to hide their mediocrity in life and in the sack.

Her tits inspired poets and bards to creates a tale of two ginormous apples hanging from the Tree of Sin. Two apples meant to taunt men into looking but not touching. Warning men to fantasize but not react. Eyes only. Hands off. They weren’t meant for reality but man, wouldn’t it be wild if they were? These tits were poetic. These tits were sinful. These tits, in the words of my father’s generation, were ‘gnarly’ or ‘rad’ or possibly ‘hip to the square’.

These tits were the first things I noticed about the girl. The second thing was her gun.

That early part about me admitting to knowing next to nil about bras? I know even less about guns. However, I knew enough to know that if you applied said gun to said forehead it created said piss in my pants.

“Hand over your wallet.” Fantasy-Tits stated with a sort of grace that was more Southern Bell than Brooklyn thug. It was playful even with a pistol pressed to my forehead and piss dribbling down my leg. A paradox of observation and emotion. Sort of like getting kicked in the balls by Shirley Temple. It’s painful and bizarre but holy shit, it’s Shirley Temple. You couldn’t be angry or pissed or even peeved. You’d be in pain, sure, but you would be choking on kittens and shitting rainbows at the cuteness.

I imagine that if my life was a porno, I would have said something about having a massive wad for her, pulled out a thirteen incher, and introduced her shirt to the alley’s floor and her breasts to my penis. If my life was a porno, I would have been fucking the shit out of her tits in the middle of a studio surrounded by a half rate director and his motley crew of dregs instead of the make-shift “Red Light District” of Williamsburg, Nebraska. If my life was a porno, she would have been screaming my name until I heard “cut” and even then I would give an extra thrust so she’d know she was special to me. Instead, however, the only thing being said was her asking for my wallet.

Sadly, my life isn’t a porno. She took my wallet, steadies her pistol, and fires into my head. I counted one shot but what the fuck do I know? I was a corpse the second I hit the ground. No flash of my past. No sudden insights or puzzle pieces coming together. I didn’t even get a fucking angle or white light. All I got was a darkness followed by nothingness.

Jokes on her, though. I had sex with her about a million times in my head before she shot me. How does she like them apples?