drunk

In a Perfect World

By Edele Winnie

“Are you Mrs. Dununzio?” The doctor asked. At lease she assumed he was a doctor. He was wearing scrubs, had a pulled down mouth mask around his throat and a smear of blood that was just disappearing from his white coated chest.

Carol Dununzio nodded. “How is she?”

The doctor shook his head sadly.

“She’s not dead then?” Carol had to be certain.

“No.” The doctor said, frowning. “She lived. She’s going to be fine. I’m sorry.”

Carol Dununzio tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Her daughter still lived. Jessica, aged eleven, had survived. What was she going to do now?

A moment later another doctor wheeled Jessica out in a wheelchair. The young girl looked dazed, and the brown hair on the side of her head was matted with dried blood. The doctor tipped the chair and Jessica slid out and landed at her mother’s feet.

The doctors walked away, commenting on how awful the sunny weather currently was.

Carol grabbed Jessica by the arms and hauled her to her feet. The girl wobbled, but her legs held and so Mrs. Dununzio tugged her towards the emergency room doors.

The family car was easy to spot, for it was the least damaged in the lot. It was a fiery red and only the passenger side had been crashed in. The car in the spot next to it had been in so many accidents that it was now a patchwork of different colours as replacement parts had been added. One door was light blue, the next black, the roof was orange and there were other colours and some rust too. The car on the other side had been in a head on and all that remained of the windshield was jagged glass.

Mrs. Dununzio pushed Jessica into the back seat where the dead cocker spaniel was.   They’d found it by the side of the road about a week ago. It was long dead though and there were barely any insects in it anymore. Jessica was still bleeding lightly from her head wound. She lay down on the ripped seats in the back and wrapped her arms around the dead dog. (more…)

Advertisements

The Fifth Monday – Hard On’s Curse Conclusion

By Ben Van Dongen

Chad struggled to wake up. His dream, something about a hot Quebecois redhead with a Charles Bronson moustache, kept tugging him back to sleep. Yawning, his jaw cracked, and water slipped into his open mouth. The half of his face he wasn’t sleeping on was wet and cold. The sensation, along with a burning desire to take a piss, roused him.

Burning. The word repeated in his head. Burning. It was distasteful, making him frown and fidget. Burn. He smelled smoke, or char. Burner. The word made him sneer.

“Ah!” He jumped up, running in a circle, kicking up snow, screaming and clutching his bottom.

The grumbled, deep voice of the snoozing demon joined the yells. “Shut the fuck up Hard-On, I’m still fucking sleeping.” The words, accompanied by small fires, caught dry branches and grass in the patch on the ground, melted by the demons heat.

“My asshole is on fire! My asshole, it burns!” (more…)

The Fifth Monday Two – Hard On’s Curse – Part 3

By Edele Winnie

The long flight to Quebec City was torturous. Cardinal Molson, nearly eighty years old and fortified by a glass of angel semen in water, was a constant attraction on the aircraft.  Women hovered around him like flies on dead meat. Three of the male flight attendants offered to give him a tour of the private areas of the aircraft- or maybe it was their private areas in the aircraft? It required a lot of forgiving, but Molson was up to it. It also helped distract him from his travelling companion. They were flying first class so Mr. T was already over-filled on complimentary beer and little packages of crackers. He was sweating profusely- the skanky smell of beer cold filtered through a human body with a bushy layer of greasy black body hair. The cardinal was named Molson but Mr. T was Molson inside and out. He was so drunk he was eating the crackers without taking the plastic wrappers off.

When he heard the commotion near the back of the plane the cardinal suspected the flight attendants were scrapping over him. Angel semen seemed to be some kind of crazy aphrodisiac.   But this time he was wrong.

“In the name of Allah!” a bearded man shouted. “American Imperialists and crusaders will pay the price!” He had some kind of button thing in his hand, with his thumb poised ready to press.

People were screaming and swooning. Cardinal Molson heard some praying to a Christian God and that snapped him out of his reverie. He raised his right hand- he wasn’t sure why at the time- and a bolt of white light came out and zoomed towards the bomber. And then the light was gone and so was the man. People blinked and rubbed at their eyes. The trouble maker had vanished. Cardinal Molson wiped the tingly palm of his hand on his black pant leg.   Angel semen indeed.

Far below a man with a beard hit the metal roof of a snowy barn and slid off, bones smashed after a freefall from thirteen thousand feet. Fourteen year old farm girl Ashley Bloomfield looked up just in time to be crushed by the falling pulverized body, killing her instantly.   One virgin, anyway. (more…)

The Fifth Monday: Hard-On’s Curse – Complete

Part One

Ben Van Dongen

Chad sat at a scarred counter, behind bulletproof glass. The pawn shop was empty and he was on the verge of beating his Joust high score, on his phone. His boss, Mr. T, was in the back office doing the day’s banking, and probably, he thought, some blow.

“Hard-on!” Mr. T’s yell was accompanied by a bang, crash, and swearing.

“I pity the fool who calls me Hard-on.” Chad ignored the continuing swearing that grew louder.

“Cut that shit out.”

Chad put one hand up, the other was furiously tapping his phone screen. “Don’t call me Hard-on and I won’t point out that you go by the name of an 80s icon.”

The owner of the pawn shop was perpetually sweaty. Thick black, sweaty, body hair poked through his t-shirt. Even his voice was greasy.

“Put that damn thing down. You responsible for that coin on my desk?” Mr. T swatted at Chad’s phone, but missed. Spit flew from his mouth and he pointed to his office.

Sad digital music played from the phone as the last ostrich-rider died.

“Come on T, I was going for the high score.”

“This is serious, little shit. The coin, on my desk.” Mr. T wiped his brow with a dirty handkerchief.

Chad pocketed his phone and swiveled to face his boss. “Yeah. Some super old, jacked-up, dude brought it in this morning.” (more…)

A Million Hits

By Christian Laforet

“Bro, my dick is killing me.” Kev adjusted the offending organ as he walked across the living room.

His roommate, Bryan, looked up over the rim of his Redbull. “Sucks dude. What’d you do to it?”

“No fucking idea man. I just woke up and it hurts so bad.”

Bryan chuckled. “Did you bang any bitches last night bro?”

Kev scratched his head. “I don’t know. I was drunk as shit. I think so though. I can remember a dirty, dirty girl, a tight hole and some serious moaning.”

“Niiiice,” Bryan said with a grin. His demeanor changed quickly though as a thought came to him. “Whoa—dude, maybe you got an STD.”

The thought horrified Kev. He had been hooking-up downtown for years and had, so far, never ended up with anything more than crabs. A pain rocketed up his penis. “Fuck man, I don’t know, but it hurts pretty bad.”

“You might want to go see a doctor or something. My brother got something called Trich. His piss was all green and foamy for like a month.”

“Shit no! I don’t want word getting out that I might have an STD. I’m gonna go take a look at it, then Google it. I don’t want to ruin my rep over some dumb shit like this.”

Kev ducked into the bathroom and instantly dropped his shorts. His dick was bruised and scraped, there was also a small lump along the right of the shaft. “Oh fuck me…”

Peeing was an exercise in torture. It took a great deal of coaxing to get anything to come out at all, and when a stream finally did emerge, it was bloody. “Jesus, no! What the fuck?”

Kev rushed back to his room and frantically searched the internet for answers. Several different options appeared before him; none of them good. He realized he would need to find the girl he had banged if he wanted any specific details about his condition.

“You okay? You look all pale and shit,” Bryan asked, the crumbs from the cold Pop Tart he was eating dotting his shirt.

“Fuck no, I’m not okay. My dick looks like it got attacked by a fuckin’ shark. I’m going over to the Machine to see if I can find out who I banged last night.”

Pop tart clutched in hand, Bryan waved. “Good luck bro. I hope your dick doesn’t fall off.” (more…)

Designated Drivers 

Ben V.

Calvin didn’t hear the bartender. Based on the expression she made, and the fact that he wasn’t holding another beer, he assumed it had something to do with her cutting him off. He hoped he looked angry, but he decided to choose his words carefully.

“Hey, my beer.” He slapped the bar, leaned back, and had to hang on to the slick wood to keep steady. His focus on the task caused him to miss her reply again. “Wha?”  (more…)