FFF - Things Go Pear-Shaped

 

I swear to God, I know how to pick 'em. Now I'm no fool, but when Eddie, you know Eddie, says he can get me into the Weeping Anus show for two bills, and he only needs a little extra in return, well, Eddie's no slouch in the extra department, so I figured, gravy, right? And there I am waiting for him when this truck pulls up, couple of mooks looking like Saturday afternoon on Long Island hop out, and I'm standing there expecting what, exactly? Not what happens. Not remotely what happens. I shouldn't have worn nice things for Eddie but a lady likes to be presentable, you know. So the one mook asks me, straight out, if I put out for teamsters. Hell yeah I put out for teamsters. I put out for anyone, you know that. And he gets this shit-eating grin on his face like I just declared it Christmas Two: Electric Boogaloo, right? I mean, anyone would, I guess. I'm a fuckin' catch and no mistake. So there's me and two of Gambino's best henchmen in an alley, their pants are around their ankles, the promissory note has been exchanged, and I'm gearing up when Tony Bennet's Biggest Fan goes totally slack-jawed, like the wiring burnt out somewhere. I look over and his pal's doing the same routine. And it wasn't anything I did because they were hard as hammers a second ago, right? And then the world goes blank for a minute or two, I think. It was like one minute I'm getting ready to give head to Paulie Walnuts, the next I'm on my back on a cold table, and there's probes and shit going on, you know, like you hear about in the tabloids, and I didn't see any aliens but no doubt they were there. And then a film splice and I'm standing in my skivvies on the sidewalk next to Eddie's guitar shop. Fuckers abandoned me to go probe some hicks in Yonkers, probably. But whatever. The show was wild, they left me my jacket, and Eddie didn't complain about my neon pubes, so I'm calling it a win.

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I was going to write both a short and a long one, but I like this one enough that I want it to be its own thing. I have no idea where it came from. I started writing it, she had a voice, and then she was telling me the story and I was just writing it down.

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Speaking of telling stories, Max provides, free of charge and out of the goodness of his own giant, erotica-filled heart, the prompt each week and all you have to do to join in is take all the words that come out and form them, clay-like, into a story. Or if you prefer, you can take all the words that exist and remove the ones that don't belong until you're left with the picture in word form. Or maybe just sit down and write a fun little story and don't worry about it, like I usually do. There's nothing simpler and it's good for you. How often can you say that about looking at porn?