New Writing

The golfer knelt down and plunged his tee into the soft green earth at his feet.

He smiled and licked his lips greedily, coating them in a fresh layer of saliva as he placed his ball atop the tee.

He glanced around at the crowd with pride as he stood and took his stance, gazing down the course as if mentally plotting the course his ball would surely take.

Then, with the grace of a pouncing leopard, he swung with all his might and sent his ball soaring into the pale blue sky. The ball veered off into the trees and disappeared.

The crowd moaned and several stifled laughs could be heard among them.

The golfer winced and then screamed with agony at his misfortune.

He carefully pulled a small dagger from his golf bag and dropped to his knees onto the grass. With the care of a surgeon, he sawed at his left thumb until it lay detached in a pool of red. Then, he stood once again and slid the dagger back into his golf bag.

The crowd gasped with shock.

Once again, the golfer placed a ball onto his tee and stood at the ready, his club high in the air.

He swung and once again, sent the ball soaring into the air.

This time, the ball curved sharply to the left and bounced into the water hazard with a crisp plunk.

The crowd groaned.

The golfer gazed at the heavens and bellowed something in a foreign tongue.

Then, he once again fell to his knees, this time pulling a ball-peen hammer from his bag and proceeding to smash his kneecap with it.

The crunch of splitting bone rung out over the silent course and blood could be seen seeping through his pants.

The crowd cried out in disbelief.

The golfer stood on weak legs and from his bag, produced another ball.

He placed it shakily onto the tee and readied himself for another swing.

With a sharp THWACK, the ball was sent sailing down the course and landed fifty yards down the fairway.

A smattering of applause could be heard from the crown and the golfer bowed gratefully.

Then, he lifted his golf bag and limped down the course towards his ball.

The golfer reached his ball and squared up, raising his club and focusing intently on the green, which was in plain sight.

He swung and sent the ball knifing into the underbrush on his left.

The ball danced off of a tree stump and came to rest in a clump of tall grass.

With a shriek of terror, the golfer spun on his heel and reached into his golf bag, pulling out a straight razor.

He then proceeded to lop off his right ear.

Blood oozed from the wound and poured down his neck and onto his white golfer's shirt as the crowed wailed in disgust.

The golfer stumbled to where his ball lay, half hidden in the tall weeds. Clumsily, he brought his club back and swung blindly at the ball with all his might.

A large chunk of sod exploded into the blue sky as the golfer missed the ball completely, sending his club directly into the dirt.

With a furious cry, the golfer turned to his golf bag and pulled out a revolver.

He aimed it at his left foot and pulled the trigger, filling his foot with hot lead.

The crowd screamed, many of them ducking and running for cover.

Staggering to his feet, the golfer once again took his place next to the ball and swung crazily.

This time, his club found nothing but air and the momentum of his swing lifted him from his feet and brought him crashing to the ground.

In a daze, the golfer lifted himself to his knees and from his pocket, he produced a large bottle of pills which he opened, dumping the contents greedily into his gaping maw.

The crowd was horrified.

The golfer stood and raised his arms above his head in surrender. Then, shaking his fists at the sky in rage, he collapsed into the tall grass onto his face, his head thumping against a large rock and he lay motionless.

A worried murmur could be heard from the crowd as the course loudspeaker announced that the practice round was over. The tournament was about the begin.

My road to sobriety has been a long and arduous one indeed. Yes, many times I have "fallen off the wagon", so to speak. In all honesty, I actually did fall off of an actual wagon at one point, due to my ridiculously high blood-alcohol level. Needless to say, the coordinators of the children's hayride weren't pleased. I digress.

There have been more than a few times on my journey to sobriety in which I've willingly given in to the temptation of the sweet juice and quenched my thirst with bottle upon bottle of all manners of alcoholic delights. In fact, for the first several months, all I needed to relapse was to see an empty beer can, tossed aside on the pavement like some forgotten newborn. Upon gazing down at this delicious piece of aluminum, I would forget anything and everything I had to do that day and dash to the nearest bar or liquor store and proceed to get horrendously drunk.

Once, I met a rather robust gentleman named Albert who, as he began to  introduce himself, gave me the mistaken impression that he was about to say the word alcohol. Without hesitation, I punched the man squarely in the face and dashed to the nearest liquor store to purchase some whiskey. Fortunately, I didn't have far to go, due to the fact that I was already standing in line at the local liquor store when I'd met Albert in the first place. (I was there because I'd witnessed a man drinking a soda earlier that day... I‘d mistook it for a beer, became furiously jealous, and dashed to the nearest liquor store.)

Finally, after many failed attempts, shameful relapses, embarrassing arrests, and awkward moments in public, I decided to do the only thing I had left to do so I called up my AA sponsor. His son answered the phone and after several minutes of berating the lad's feminine voice, I was finally put on the phone with my sponsor, who's child, in fact, turned out to be a girl.

I informed him in a loud drunken voice (I was drunk) that I was going to be locking myself into my apartment for a month straight without access to television, radio, magazines, newspapers, or anything that might remind me of alcohol in any way. I then demanded that he deliver me fresh meals daily and ensure that I was properly provided with toiletries and a large stack of coloring books, to pass the time. He immediately refused, throwing me into a state of callous disbelief and rage.
After slamming the phone down and tearing the curtains from the living room window, I respectfully called him back and apologized, noting that I would provide myself with all of the bare necessities as long as he checked in on me once a week. He begrudgingly agreed, stating that he'd be at my apartment every Sunday night after the AA meeting to make sure I was okay.
I was immediately infuriated by the stubborn tone in his voice and slammed down the phone. I had no time for such disobedience. I gulped down the rest of my gin like a victorious Rhodesian warrior and heaved my television out of my bedroom window. I wouldn't be needing it until next month anyway.

The next day, I awoke with a startling hangover and poured myself a bowl of Quaker oats. I plopped down on the couch and shoveled the dry oats into my mouth, a look of disgust on my pale face. I grabbed the remote and clicked the "power" button furiously, waiting for the room to be flooded with the sounds of electronic entertainment at it's finest. Nothing happened. I suddenly remembered what had become of my television and hurled the bowl of oats at the wall where the television used to be, sitting on it's orange crate throne majestically.

In a panic, I ran to the front door and began unbolting the latches. I desperately needed to retrieve my television set and purchase some type of alcohol to drink while I was watching it.

Just as I was unlocking the last deadbolt, the phone rang.

Now, I have always had a habit of not answering the phone under any circumstances, but recently I've taken to fantasizing about who could be on the other end of the line and due to the fact that I've not had actual intercourse with an actual woman in quite some time, I've taken to hoping that every time the phone rings, it will be some delectable young Lolita, mistakenly dialing the wrong number. Perhaps she wishes to reach local law enforcement or the fire department. Perhaps even poison control or a suicide hotline. In any of these cases, I would surely pretend to be the desired party, acquire her address and descend onto her home like a raptor, swooping onto its unsuspecting prey. Once I'd arrived and made my entry, I'd surely save her from whatever misfortune she was encountering. She, in turn, would be so grateful, that she'd no doubt reward me with vigorous intercourse of some type and perhaps lifelong service, attending to my every need subserviently and gratefully bearing the fruit of my loins. Since these scenarios are indeed completely possible, I dutifully answer the phone each and every time it rings.

"Hello" I stated handsomely into the receiver. I always ensure that my voice sounds deep and sensual when making a first impression on the telephone.

"Hi, Harold?", the man's voice replied.

Damn. It was my sponsor.

My sponsor is a man of about thirty-five who lives in a nicer section of town with his wife of eleven years and his two children. He's been sober for four years but still attends the meetings for some ridiculous reason. Several times, I've attempted to serve him alcohol without him knowing it, in order to break his lengthy streak of sobriety. I've handed him colas spiked with whiskey, iced tea spiked with vodka, and even scrambled eggs spiked with Jagermeister, but he's always caught on. So, before every AA meeting for the last several months, I've been squirting a small bottle of hand sanitizer into his coffee. Few people know this, but hand sanitizer actually contains large amounts of alcohol. I know this because I've drank it and used it on sandwiches on several previous occasions.

"Oh. It's you." I said disappointedly, stifling my erection. "I suppose my penis will go wanting once again."

"Um... I don't know what you mean by that so I'll just ignore it.", the sniveling man replied. "I just called because I had a feeling in my gut that I should check up on you and make sure you're staying strong."

"Yes I'm staying strong, you unbelievable rodent of a man!!" I bellowed, slamming the phone down and ripping the cord from the wall. I started once again for the door, but something about the phone call I'd just received weighed heavily on my mind.

With a sigh, I relocked the front door and seated myself on the couch, sliding out of my tight slacks and brandishing my phallus like some fleshy, muscular sword. I needed to stay strong.

The month that followed was filled with eating dry nonperishable foods, drinking nothing but water, coloring in a variety of Disney coloring books, and almost constant masturbation (with the aide of the Disney coloring books). By the thirtieth day, I was cabin-feverish, my hands were cramped from coloring and masturbating, and I was chaffed almost to the point of horrific scarring (also due to masturbating). Damned Snow White, with her shapely figure and supple round breasts..

Regardless of my discomfort, I was quite pleased that I had successfully completed an entire month without one drop of alcohol hitting my lips. Proudly, I dressed myself in the only pair of clean slacks that I had left (I'd neglected to do any laundry that month due to the fact that the laundry mat is several blocks away and I would've had to leave my apartment). I adorned my torso with a bright red polo shirt and topped my head with a plaid beret, which I'd been saving for just such an occasion.

With glee, I took one final look around my apartment and unbolted the locks on my front door. The gust of fresh air that hit my nostrils was much like the smell of a freshly baked boysenberry pie to an obese gentleman. I inhaled deeply and strode proudly to my automobile, unlocking the door and plopping myself into the driver's seat. This was the first time I'd driven sober in longer than I could remember and I was desperate to attempt it again. I was also desperate to share my sobriety and the experience of the past month with someone other than my horrible AA sponsor.

I cranked the engine and pulled out of the parking space, backing harshly into a mail truck that was parked right behind me. Thankfully, the mailman was nowhere in sight so I slammed my foot onto the gas pedal and attempted to pull away. Unfortunately, I still had the vehicle in reverse so I only plowed further into the mail truck. Driving while sober was turning out to be quite a challenge. I slammed the vehicle into gear and my tires squealed as I quickly pulled away from the incident, leaving broken glass and black tire marks in my wake.

I pulled into O'Malley's Bar & Grill and hopped out of my car, still anxious to share my inspirational story with another human being. I dashed to the entrance and flung open the double doors. The patrons were no doubt astounded at my majestic appearance and showed it by whispering to each other and gawking in disbelief. I smiled with satisfaction and seated myself at the bar.
I hastily ordered myself two beers and immediately turned to the man seated next to me. In the several hours that followed, I relayed my story of hope and inspiration to not only that man, but every other individual who was fortunate enough to have chosen a seat near mine. Sobriety does indeed have it's benefits.

I screamed at the fish but my muffled cries were ignored. She continued to burn the documents one by one, letting each one smolder to a pile of ash in the small metal trash can. I strained against the ropes but they dug into my wrists sharply and the rag stuffed in my mouth tasted like the innards of a car.

"You wont even EXIST without these documents!" the fish bellowed. "My devious plan is finally reaching it's amazing conclusion!" Her breasts were incredible.

She stared at me with lunacy dancing in her eyes like a million half-starved African tribesmen in the moonlight.

"But wait..." she exclaimed wildly, "Did I just catch you sleeping??"

The oily rag tumbled from my mouth.

"What?" I asked confusedly.

"Hey! Did I just catch you sleeping?"

"Huh?"

"HEY!!!" the lieutenant shouted as he barged noisily through the lobby double doors in front of my security desk. "Did I just catch you sleeping?!? You slacking sack of trash!! Open your eyes and do your job or I'll can you faster than a mexican cans peaches!"

Bleary-eyed and groggy, I lifted my face from my desk and stared blankly at him. I didn't understand the peaches reference and I was still a little disoriented from being pulled rudely from my nap.
"No sir, I wasn't sleeping", I said, wiping the drool from my cheek and stifling a yawn. "My eyes were closed because I was praying to God that I would have no serious security threats tonight."

"You're as bad a liar as you are a man!", the lieutenant screamed at me, spit flying from his juicy lips. "If I weren't such a peaceful person, I'd fly over that desk and beat on your face until my fist is covered in brains!!"

"Sir, dont you think that's a little excessive?", I reasoned. "My eyes were closed because I was so deep in thought about how to better secure this building."

"How dare you play me for a fool!!!", the lieutenant bellowed, his face turning red and the veins on his neck and forehead standing out, "I wish I could meet your family so I could beat each and every one of them with a club-type weapon!!!!!"
 
"Alright sir, now listen here. My family didn't do anything to...." I was interupted mid-sentence by the shriek of the lieutenant and the smashing of glass as he hoisted a lobby chair high into the air and heaved it through one of the plate-glass windows of the lobby. Also, for some reason, he had torn his shirt off, his disgusting, bulbous gut, shaking, and bouncing like some horrible gelatin dish.

"I want your home address you slumbering time-thief!!!!!", the lieutenant screamed, tearing large clumps of hair from his scalp in a blind rage. "I want your address so I can travel to your place of residence and burn it to the ground!!!!"

"Sir, please calm down!", I pleaded with him. "There are other ways to settle this."

"If I had a knife or some other deadly type of weapon, I would definitely kill you!!!!", the lieutenant howled, breaking another window and crashing through a large potted tree. Foam was coming from the corners of the man's mouth and I could see that he was nashing his teeth violently.
"I literally dont want you to be alive anymore!!!!"

"That's a horrible thing to say Sir!" I said, shocked that my seemingly kind and peaceful superior officer could utter such madness.

"I want your soul!!!!!!", the lieutenant shrieked in a voice that didn't even sound like a man, much less a human being. "I hate you more than I've ever hated anyone in my life!!! AHHHGHLAFFOOOOOOOO......"

The lieutenant roared as he threw himself clumsily through the huge, thick pane of glass on the door of the lobby with a horrific smashing of glass and bone, only to find himself crashing through a bikerack that was packed full of bicycles. He lay motionless on the ground outside. I could see from my seat behind my desk in the lobby that he had soiled himself and the bald spots on his head made him look almost comical. What a drama queen.

"Okay, okay", I said with a wry smile. "You caught me sleeping on duty. It wont happen again Sir. Now...." I continued, turning my gaze back to the massive fish and drawing my pistol, the metal clicked crisply as I drew back the hammer and took steady aim. "You and I have some unfinished business to attend to."

Desire... She could see it in my eyes.

Passion... I could feel that connection between us, almost as if some lustful magnetic force was drawing us together.

I slid out of my loose-fitting clothes and took my place on the bed next to her. My member was already throbbing, the veins that run up and down the sides pulsating with the tempo of my beating heart. I dabbed a bit of clear discharge from the tip and smeared it seductively around her lips like some horrible tribal lip balm of the indigenous rain forest pigmies, making her lips sparkle like a fresh blade of grass on a dewy morning.

She began to speak but I shushed her with an index finger against her supple lips and proceeded to pull out a pair of barber's scissors and crisply snip through her clothing. The loose fabric fell away, revealing her naked body which sparkled in the glow of the fluorescent lamps overhead.

For a moment, I kneeled above her, taking in her body with my hungry eyes. My throbbing phallus danced above her belly like a gypsy in need of a good thrashing and she gazed at it with eyes as wide as saucers. I took this body language as a compliment and immediately spat upon my hand and began stroking my shaft greedily.

She opened her mouth as if to speak, but before the words leapt from her lips, I thrust forward, shoving my manhood into her oral orifice. Her eyes bulged and I felt the tip ram the back of her throat. She immediately gagged and I began ravenously pounding my hips into her face, forcing my penis deep into her esophagus.

Just as I was upon the brink of bliss, I shrank back and brandished my member as if it were a sword, held by Thor himself.

I forcefully pinned her knees against her earlobes and entered her womanhood with the grace of a stallion. Her sharp intake of breath told me that she was enthralled and wanted more.

I began to pump my pelvis squarely against hers and I could see her eyes roll back into their sockets in bliss. I felt like a well-oiled machine whose sole purpose was to give pleasure. To myself.

After delivering approximately a baker's dozen of firm steady thrusts, I repositioned her body by flipping her onto her stomach and pinning her arms behind the small of her back. The tendons in her spine cracked with satisfaction and I smiled gleefully as I entered her once again, spreading her moist cheeks apart with both hands. I rammed myself into her over and over, making the bed smack the wall with such force that if there had been framed pictures hanging aloft, they would've surely crashed to the floor, the glass from the frames shattering into a billion dazzling shards.

As I humped, I forced her face deep into the pillow and began furiously delivering open-palmed smacks to her pale back, bringing forth muffled moans from within the pillow.

Once again, I brought myself to the brink of jubilee and then paused a split second before I let loose and changed positions once again.

I flipped her sweaty figure over so that she was seated atop my phallus with me on my back, staring up at her enormous breasts which swayed like massive pendulums above me. I ordered her to bounce and as she gyrated atop me, I reached for the large jug of milk that I'd placed on the nightstand when I'd arrived.

Taking a large swig, I spat a steady stream of calcium-infused goodness into her face and then proceeded to pour the remaining contents of the jug onto my chest and stomach. The icy milk caused an immediate hardening of my nips and I ordered her to pinch them, which she did immediately. Her finger strength astounded me and I winced in pain and immediately dealt her a crisp facial smacking which turned her cheeks a rosy red hue. This only aroused me more.

I forced her off of me and slammed her petite body against the wall, once again forcing my erect penis deep into the crevice betwixt her legs. She grunted fiercely and went limp, I assume from the effects of an intense orgasm that was surely overtaking her frail body.

As I voraciously pumped my pelvis against hers, I felt that I was surely due for some release of my own so I threw her to her knees and proceeded to let flow with forceful bursts of milky stickiness directly into her gaping nostrils. My roars of ecstasy filled the room and when I'd completed my ejaculation, I lifted her in both of my arms and dropped her hastily back into her bed.
Then, I retreated to the corner of the room and with a dramatic sigh of relief, doused the wall with what was surely gallons of fresh warm urine.

Finally, I toweled off my phallus with her bed sheets and redressed myself in my pale blue scrubs, lighting a cigarette and straightening my ruffled hair.

I walked towards the entrance of the room, satisfied beyond my own wildest dreams, giving her a seductive wink and walking back out into the hallway. I slammed the door behind me as the potent smell of disinfectant flooded my nostrils once again. Working as an orderly in a nursing home does have it's benefits.

I first saw the dog when I came walking home from school one cloudy November afternoon.

He came lumbering out from behind a dumpster in an alleyway with what looked like half a dead fish hanging from his loose jowls sloppily.

His fur was matted and dirt-brown.

I couldn't tell if it had once been white, but if it had, this dog was in serious need of a bath.

I wasn't about to give him one.

I was almost twenty feet away from the wretched beast, but I could clearly smell his putrid breath and shit-caked anus.

He froze mid-step and as he gazed at me with his one good eye, a tremor seemed to travel down his spine.

The ground beneath him became damp as he showered the dirt with urine, no doubt horrified at the sight of another living creature.

I knew in an instant that this hound was meant for me.

I dashed towards him, not giving him a chance to retreat back behind the dumpster and tore the fish from the dog's lips.

Then I quickly fashioned a crude leash from my belt and a piece of rope that I found in the dumpster.

I slapped the makeshift leash around his neck and tightened it with all my might until I felt him gag and heave.

Then I half-dragged him down the alleyway in the direction of my house.

"I'll call you Roy," I said pleasantly to the dog, giving him a firm swat on the rump.

A cloud of dust plumed from the dog's matted fur, making me cough and wheeze.

Roy uttered a muffled growl, but it sounded more like a moan and I laughed loudly.

I got to my house and dragged the filthy mutt to the backyard and tied his leash to a post.

Then I grabbed the garden hose and proceeded to blast Roy with it.

The force of the water knocked the hound from his feet and he crumpled to the ground and lay there in a heap as frigid water washed over him.

I turned off the water and called to Roy from across the yard.

He lay motionless.

He looked hungry.

I felt hungry.

I walked into the house and prepared a large bacon sandwich, then returned the backyard where Roy still lay in the same position.

I sauntered over to the mutt and plopped down beside him, munching my bacon sandwich hungrily.

He whimpered and looked up at the sandwich with tears of ravenous hunger in his bloodshot eyes.

I chuckled and crammed the rest of the sandwich into my gaping mouth.

Several small crumbs of bacon fell to the ground in front of Roy's gray nose.

He lifted his head and leaned in to slurp up the crumbs but I hastily snatched up the morsels with my spindly fingers and stuffed them between my lips greedily.

By this time, Roy was shivering violently.

After all, it was below forty degrees outside and I'd just blasted him with freezing water.

I noticed it was getting rather chilly, so I dashed into the house and snatched up several blankets, as well as a large winter coat and a warm knit cap.

I returned to the yard and once again, plopped down beside the mongrel.

Happily, I adorned the coat and cap and wrapped myself in the many warm blankets that I'd brought from inside.

Roy looked miserable.

I assumed that Roy was thirsty so I proceeded to once again blast the dog with a steady stream of icy water from the hose.

The air around was getting quite cold and I could see the first flakes of snow falling from the pale gray sky.

I stood up and attempted to catch a few flakes on my tongue as the snowfall became steadier and more persistent.

The weather man had predicted a snowstorm for that day and he was as honest as he was skilled at meteorology.

I beamed up at the sky and then hastily walked inside the house to sit in front of the warm, toasty fireplace.

Outside, the snow began coming down in beautiful ivory sheets.

I've always enjoyed a nice road trip. The cool wind blowing through your long brown locks and mustache... the 80's music blasting from your blown speakers... the repetitious squeaking of that front left wheel... the several large milk jugs filled with urine in the passenger seat that remind you that you never need to pull over if you have a penis and a lidded jug of some type... the flashing red and blue lights in the rear view mirror accompanied by a wailing siren...shit.

I checked the speedometer...Damn. It read 30 miles per hour... 45 below the posted speed limit. I'm always fearful of taking my old ‘74 Chevy above about 30 miles per hour due to the fact that there are several major problems with the engine and my brakes are far from satisfactory. I fear that any further acceleration may cause the engine to ignite and consume me in a ball of molten fire.

I reluctantly pulled over to the side of the road just as my engine promptly died. I grimaced sourly and looked into my cracked side-view mirror as the officer exited his vehicle and walked toward mine, a ticket book in his hand.

Now, when it comes to traffic violations, I've had more than my fair share. It seems that every couple months or so, the police department decides to ridiculously charge me for some harmless activity that my car and I participate in. I feel that with the world as overpopulated as it is, one should park their automobile in whatever space is available, and that includes sidewalks, handicapped spots, fire lanes, school bus zones, and other people's driveways (to name a few). I find it highly unethical and just plain rude to ticket someone who is simply trying to park their car, run a hasty errand, and get back home. That's why I insist on using all of my parking tickets as toilet paper and then of course never paying them due to the fact that they're then flushed down the gaping hole at the bottom of my commode. This has resulted in numerous bowl overflows, which I also blame on the local law enforcement. Needless to say, I owe a considerable amount of money in unpaid parking tickets and traffic violations and I simply couldn't afford another one at this current juncture.

I stuffed my beer between the seats and grudgingly rolled down my window. The officer strolled confidently up to my window and glared at me from behind his large aviator sunglasses. He shook his head with disgust and after what seemed like an eternity, he spoke.

"I don't even know where to begin with you.", the officer said harshly, "Why don't I start by taking a look at your license and registration."

"Fair enough." I grumbled callously as I rifled through my glove box for the documents, my elbow accidentally knocking one of the large jugs of urine off the passenger seat and onto the floor. The musty stench of urine flooded the car as the carpet became soaked in yellowy goodness. I grimaced and handed the requested documents to the trooper. The trooper looked baffled and disgusted.

"Are those jugs of piss?", the cop asked in disbelief, "My God, you are sick. Do you have any idea how slow you were going? Do I need to remind you that you are not the only driver on the road?"

"Yes sir, I know exactly how fast I was going. I strive to achieve the maximum speed possible, while still practicing good safety and defensive driving.", I lied. "And as for my jugs of urine, I find it highly uneconomical to have to pull over every twenty minutes to pass water. I save time by cramming my penis into the mouth of the jug and letting flow. My bladder is remarkably small for a grown man and with the amount of bee.... I mean soda that I drink, I usually need to go quite often."

The officer stared at me. My explanation was apparently enough to render him completely speechless. I assumed that he was overjoyed to have found a safe driver such as myself. I also assumed that he was probably a raving homosexual due to the fact that he was still staring at me, no doubt lusting after my shapely legs and chest.

Let me go on record as saying that I am an avid heterosexual, but I really didn't need another traffic violation on my record and I was willing to go the extra mile to ensure that that didn't happen. I beamed up at the officer with my most dazzling smile and unbuttoned the top button of my shirt.

The officer frowned and spoke, his voice sounding irritated and sharp. I couldn't understand why.

"You were driving thirty miles per hour. That's dangerously below the posted speed limit. You also have no brake lights, expired tags, and your trunk is open."

I glanced over my shoulder and cursed. My trunk was wide open. My face grew flush and I sputtered , furious at my own carelessness.

"I... didn't..." Speechless and furious, I slammed my fist against the horn. Nothing happened due to the fact that my horn hasn't worked in years.

"And what is that terrible smell?" the officer questioned nosily.

I sniffed the air and noticed it too. It was a pungent rotting odor and it easily overpowered the stench of the urine. Suddenly, I realized what it was and groaned.

Earlier that week, to ensure that I wouldn't forget it, I'd placed my dish for the Thanksgiving celebration in the back seat of my car. From the grocery store, I'd purchased a boxed mix for a delicious looking breakfast casserole. I'd meticulously prepared it and added several large hen eggs, making it a delectable delight, fit for any occasion. In addition, I'd also added several slices of turkey lunch meat, to make it more Thanksgivingy. Unfortunately, after several days of sitting on the counter and then several more days of sitting in my back seat, the eggs had surely rotted. Hence, the atrocious smell.

"It's a breakfast casserole." I said somberly.

"That's disgusting. I'm going to have to write you several citations." He pulled out a pen and flipped open his ticket book.

As I said before, I simply couldn't afford another ticket. I unzipped my pants and let my testicles and penis flop forth from their dank lair, sparkling droplets of old urine splashing from the tip. Then I gazed up at the officer with a smile.

The officer looked revolted and furious all at the same time and chastised me in an angry voice.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?? You're damn lucky I don't take you to jail right now! You are one twisted fuck! Now take your ticket and get the hell out of here before I pull you out of that car and take you to prison!"

The officer was apparently still in the closet. He spun on his heel and walked briskly back to his patrol car, muttering profanities under his breath. I waited until the car had pulled back onto the highway and sped off before attempting to start my engine. Thankfully, it cranked up on the first try.

I pitched the ticket out the window and pulled back onto the road, cracking a fresh beer and stuffing my limp genitals back into my zipper hole.

Jack's Camry coasted smoothly into the driveway in front of the large two story house where I waited, crouching deviously in the bushes.  I was grateful that he'd arrived so promptly. I feared that my small bladder was dangerously close to bursting and filling my innards with toxic yellow piss. Earlier that day, I'd been at the internet café, slurping down lattes one after another and I'd neglected to pass water before embarking on my mission.

Jack hopped out of his automobile and searched the yard and street for Mr. Clark Duffington, the wealthy businessman who was supposedly house hunting. Little did he know that there was no Clark Duffington. I chuckled and watched as Jack took out a set of keys and began walking down the walkway towards the front door. He was wearing a crisp pair of slacks and an expensive looking blue blazer. His dress shoes sparkled under the midday sun and they clicked on the pavement as he strode along, whistling a cheerful tune.

As Jack passed in front of my bush, I let out a bloodcurdling scream, sprung, and pounced like a hungry lion. I tackled him onto the lawn, his blazer sliding along the grass, no doubt staining it and his slacks with permanent brownish green streaks. It had rained earlier in the day and the ground was soft and moist underneath him.

Jack let out a cry like a wounded gazelle and struggled violently to get away, but I latched onto his ankles with the grip of a ferocious Viking and he was powerless to escape. He turned onto his side and looked into the eyes of his attacker for the first time. A horrified expression immediately appeared on his face and his lip quivered.

"YOU!!! I SHOULD'VE KNOWN!!! I...I SHOULD'VE KNOWN!!!!"

"Jack!!! Old pal!" I shouted triumphantly, a terrible smile on my mud-splattered face. "You've fallen victim to my amazing ruse! Now you are in my clutches and you will surely provide me with the information that I seek!"  

"Please! Please, just let me go and stop tormenting me and my family!" Jack begged.

I guffawed heartily at his pathetic pleas and sank my teeth into his calf. Jack shrieked and once again began thrashing to get free, digging up soggy grass and dirt and no doubt completely ruining his outfit. The sudden movement on his part must've jostled my innards because my bladder released and I felt my lower half become warm. The musty stench filled the air and Jack let out a disgusted yell.

"Calm yourself Jack," I warned him, "See what you've done? I will let you go on your merry way as soon as I get my hands on the information that you possess!"

"What do you want?!?" Jack pleaded, "Anything! You want money? Here! Take it!! Just let me go!!!"

He reached for his wallet and threw a handful of twenty dollar bills in my direction.

"No, you fool! I dont want your filthy money!!" I bellowed, releasing his ankles and pocketing the bills greedily. "I only wish to know the location of this year's Thanksgiving celebration! My invitation was lost in the mail yet again this year!"

"Your invitation wasn't lost!", Jack cried, tears streaming down his fat face, "You weren't sent an invitation! You weren't invited! Don't you get it?? After the last time you attended, nobody wanted you there anymore! You made an embarrassment out of yourself and offended practically everybody in attendance!"

I stared at him with rage, shocked by this foolish cretin's horrible lies.

"You're babbling falsehoods, you horrible excuse for a man!" I roared, "Everyone loves having me around! They love my hilarious anecdotes and my gentlemanly charm! How dare you!?!"

"Don't you remember? You got belligerently drunk and accused our grandmother of cheating on her husband with the milkman!"

"You lie!! How dare you slander my good name!?!" I screamed. This man was surely in danger of being completely destroyed.

"I can't believe you don't remember that!!" Jack replied, tears gushing down his rosy cheeks. "You were standing on top of the dinner table with your shirt off, screaming accusations... and grandmother doesn't even HAVE a milkman!! She lives in a God damned nursing home!!"

"LIES!!!" I boomed, launching myself on top of him again and stuffing his mouth with grass and soil.

"Alright! ALRIGHT!!!!" Jack garbled through the mouthful of sod, "I'll tell you where it is, you lunatic!!!"

I released my grip on his neck and allowed him to clear his mouth of filth as I pulled out a writing tablet and a pen and prepared to copy.

"Well?" I growled.

"It's in Dallas. At Uncle Frank and Aunt Meredith's house." Frank gasped, "Thanksgiving dinner is at three in the afternoon. Dress nicely and try to bring a dish... and actually bring something appropriate, not like last time when you brought those terrible fish planks."

It was true. Last time I'd attended, I'd opened several tins of mackerel and placed them on a plate. Then I'd covered them with foil and claimed that I'd caught them out of the ocean and cooked them myself.
Prior to being put onto the Thanksgiving dinner table, they'd endured hours of sitting in the trunk of my car. The drive to the celebration was long and it was unnaturally warm for that time of the year so they were indeed rancid.

After forcing Jack to eat a large portion of garbage that had been in the back seat of my car for quite some time, I departed the large two story house and drove back to my apartment to get my tuxedo out of mothballs. Thanksgiving was going to be wonderful, as always.

Someone once told me that the true meaning of Thanksgiving has to do with slurping up every available drop of alcohol that you can get your jaundice-infected mitts on and gobbling down every manner of food you can jam-pack inside your ever-distending belly. Of course, the person who told me this was my horribly-alcoholic Uncle Peter, as he sat on the couch and gulped down Dewar's Whisky like a thirsting nomad.
I can still picture that lustful look in his intoxicated eyes as he swatted at the rump of my cousin Nadine. Thankfully she's safe now, living happily (I assume) in a padded room down at the Rainbow Valley Mental Hospice. I'd visit her there, but the smell of the disinfectant makes me gag and inevitably vomit. That, and the fact that I never liked her.

But of course, I know the REAL meaning behind Thanksgiving is to celebrate the arrival of the Pilgrims in America as they dominated the natives, burned their feeble villages to the ground, stole their women and food, feasted upon their bounty, drank their wine, and danced joyously upon the graves of many. It's truly a festive occasion and definitely one that I try never to miss out on, though at times I admit it does manage to slip my mind due to the fact that the traditional yearly invitation that my family sends out to everyone in the mail usually fails to reach me. Yes, for the past four years I haven't received an invitation informing me of the day, time, and location of the family Thanksgiving dinner. I assume it's because the invitations are getting lost in the mail and because of the complicated nature of my home address. In this illiterate society, 3's can often be misread as 8's and so forth... damned U.S. Postal Service and their uneducated absentmindedness...

Thanksgiving in my family is usually a lavish affair in which family members travel from all over the country to join in food and fellowship. Everyone dresses formally and brings some type of dish to contribute to the meal and we sit at a massive table, eat delicious foods, drink expensive wine, tell amazing tales of the past year, and laugh happily together until I black out and collapse facedown in the snow of the backyard with no pants on.  I assume everyone else does roughly the same. I've never really been coherent past about 7:30pm.

Unfortunately, my invitation was once again lost in the labyrinth of the U.S. Postal Service this year.  A month ago, I noticed the leaves on the trees turning a brilliant shade of orange and realized that the holiday must be approaching with speed, so I travelled to the convenience store (the only method I have for finding out the date). After purchasing some antiperspirant, I demanded that the cashier show me a calendar immediately.  I violently tore the "October" page out of the calendar and stuffed it into my pocket. As I turned and headed for the door, the uppity young lad behind the counter rudely informed me that we were, in fact, in the month of November. Once again, I snatched the calendar, this time folding the entire booklet in half and stuffing it into my tight sweatpants, the stiff paper scraping against my penis coarsely. I grimaced, snatched a Big Hunk candy bar from the shelf, and hastily walked out the door. I simply won't tolerate being made a fool of in public situations.

Knowing the day that Thanksgiving landed upon was only half the battle. I still needed the location. I assumed that most of the invitations had gotten through to the other family members, but I only live near three: My cousin Jack, who's a pathetic real estate agent with a family of four; my cousin Nadine, who's a committed patient at the Rainbow Valley Mental Hospice; and my Aunt Loda, who resides in the Hillpark Cemetery and is currently dead.

Since I despise Jack, and Aunt Loda's in no condition to be giving out information, I decided to pay a visit to Nadine at the mental home to see if she knew of, and would politely divulge the location of this year's festivities. This proved to be extremely difficult, considering Nadine is apparently very unstable and likely very dangerous to herself and others if permitted to leave her padded cell (according to the nurse on duty at the front desk). It also proved difficult because, after several minutes of breathing in that horrendous mental-hospital-smell, I promptly vomited and was asked to leave the premises. I objected and asked the nurse if she possibly knew the location of my family's Thanksgiving celebration, but she refused to give up any information, saying that I was in a hospital and that I was being extremely unsanitary, not to mention disruptive to the people trying to recuperate there. I attempted to explain my situation but my ability to talk was hindered by the vomit that was still gushing from my oral aperture and I was roughly escorted from the hospital by an angry security guard.  Apparently, Jack the real estate agent was my only option.

Jack has never taken much of a liking to me...probably because I used to torment him mercilessly as a child. I used to force him to eat garbage and dress in his mother's clothing for my amusement. The look Jack's father gave him when he arrived home from a hard day's work to see Jack gallivanting around in drag day after day was absolutely priceless...and the beatings he received afterwards were immensely comical. I used to call him Jaclyn and hide gay pornography in his room where his father could easily find it. Then I'd force him to eat more garbage. I think Jack may still blame me for his father accusing him of being gay and then estranging him, but I really don't know why... My hilarious antics of the past were all in good fun and if he can't take a joke then he can go leap into a lake, which incidentally, I made him do several times as a child.

Because of the fact that Jack doesn't like me, getting in touch with him proved to be quite a chore. I stopped by his home several times and pounded on his door, yelling for him to let me in and divulge the location of the celebration.  I even climbed into his back yard and peered maliciously into his windows at his family while they ate dinner, watched TV, and showered.  Unfortunately, whenever I tapped on the glass, his family would look terrified and run from the room.  In turn, I would also become terrified, leap into the alley behind his house, and hide inside of a dumpster until I was sure the coast was clear.
This outlandishness continued for several days and nights until the police presence in the area was too great for me to risk coming near.  A new plan of attack was needed.

The Monday afternoon before Thanksgiving, I located a payphone near my apartment and dialed Jack's work phone number.
Jack answered politely.
I resisted the urge to verbally berate him and told him, in a phony high-pitched voice, that my name was Clark Duffington, a wealthy businessman who wanted a tour of one of the properties Jack was selling.  From the pathetic sound of Jack's voice, he hadn't made a sale in months.  He excitedly gave me the address of a house he was showing nearby and I told him that I'd stop immediately.  As luck would have it, the house Jack was showing was less than a block away from the payphone I was using and in minutes, I was crouched in the bushes, snickering angrily and waiting for Jack's bright gold Camry to come rolling into the driveway. Fortunately, I didn't have long to wait.

Going to see my family for the holidays.
Speeding down the freeway.
Windows down.
Breeze whipping against my face, stinging my flesh, but in a refreshing kind of way.
I'm halfway through a twelve pack of malt liquor and a quarter of the way through a pack of Marlboro Lights.
Death metal blasting on my stereo, turned up so loud that it drowns out the road noise flooding through my gaping windows.
I feel alive.

Thirty minutes outside of Roswell.
I notice a man in the distance, standing on the roadside.
He's still a good ways away, but I notice his hand extended horizontally out over the shoulder of the road.
His thumb points towards the sky as if he's critiquing some amazing movie he's just seen, but as I come closer, I realize that not only is he not critiquing a movie, but judging from his personal appearance, it's probably been quite a while since he's even seen one.
A hitchhiker.

The drive has been long.
The beer, phenomenal.
The music, satisfying.
And yet, I'm bored.
Maybe it's the six hours I've been on the road... Maybe it's the fact that I've had no one to talk to but myself and the voices in my head, but I'm overcome with boredom.

I pull over next to the shabby drifter.
He smiles good naturedly, picks up his ragged duffel bag, and opens my passenger side door.
He introduces himself as "Dale" and thanks me for the lift.
He has a tattoo on his arm that says "Ashes to Ashes", as if he's some type of philosophical being.
I tell him to put his duffel in the bed of my truck and buckle his seatbelt.
I wont have him trying to attack me with his homemade weapons or whatever else he may have in his duffel... and I damn sure wont have him getting me pulled over by not wearing his lap belt.

I pull back out onto the highway.
He attempts to exchange pleasantries with me, but I turn the stereo back up. Heavy metal floods the cab of my truck and he takes the hint.
After ten minutes of ear-splitting heaviness, he reaches for the volume knob.
I glare at him as he turns down my radio and asks me if I can drop him in Roswell.

I smile and nod my head as if I understand everything that he's just said to me. Then I turn the volume back up and floor the gas pedal, cracking open another can of relief and lighting a cigarette.
"Dale" glances at me nervously.
In my head, I'm chuckling at myself for bringing him such discomfort.
I'm inwardly chuckling at this poor revolting fool's misfortune.

I pull off the highway onto a random dirt road and my truck rumbles over the cattle guard.
I floor the pedal and all of a sudden we're speeding full throttle down a narrow dusty road towards a grove of dead trees.
"Dale" looks very shaken and I see his knuckles whiten as he grips the door handle.
I cautiously push the power lock button to ensure that all doors are locked.

I pull in beneath a large dead aspen tree and kill the engine. 
I turn to "Dale" and smile.
I tell him to get out of the truck.
He asks why and I tell him that I don't want to mess up my interior.
He asks me what I mean by that and I respond by pulling a hunting knife out from under my seat and placing the knife point against his adam's apple.
He pleads for me to stop and just let him out so he can go on his way but I laugh and tell him to get out of my truck.
He gets out.
I get out.
I can see by his wild eyes that he plans to run but before he can think of doing it, I'm already out and on his side of the vehicle.
My quickness astonishes him. It astonishes me.

He reaches for his duffel bag but I catch him by the throat and before he can utter a word, the blade goes into his lower back, right below where his ribcage stops.

Being near this man makes me nauseous.
His odor is vile.
I imagine his lasts shower was weeks ago, if not before that.
I twist the blade and remove it quickly, noiselessly.
He falls to the ground, groaning in pain.
I plant my foot on his throat and demand to know why he's homeless and drifting.
I demand an excuse for his laziness.
I ask why he hasn't had the presence of mind to get a job, to do something with his life.
He fails to give me any sort of coherent answer so I drop to one knee and the blade plunges into his throat.
Ashes to ashes.

After half an hour of meticulous work, he's broken and sliced down small enough to fit inside his disgusting duffel.
I cram the slothful pieces of corpse into the duffel and clean my hands, arms, and face.
Baby wipes are a lifesaver.
My shirt was unsalvageable.
Ashes to ashes.

I leave the duffel.
Back in my truck, I drive back down the dirt road to the highway and continue on my way.
My family will be glad to see me.
It's been so long since we've all spent Thanksgiving together.
Mom's turkey is simply to die for.

      
      Halloween is traditionally a festive time of the year for most American families. It's an occasion in which to get together with loved ones, devour loads of sugary treats, traipse around the neighborhood wearing demonic costumes, and sing beloved Halloween songs.  Unfortunately, I lack a wife and children, so none of these pastimes apply to me, nor have they ever. When I was a boy, my mother frowned upon the holiday and kept me locked in the pantry for the entire night while she dressed as a massive circus clown and handed out candy to the neighborhood chitlins who came knocking at the door. I have a hunch that she consumed more candy than she handed out, because when she'd finally release me from my pantry-prison, her face would be smeared with brown goo that I assumed was chocolate.

Yes, my Halloweens were spent crouched in darkness with my ear pressed to the door of the pantry, miserably munching on tins of Spam and stale saltine crackers that I'd snatched from the shelves above me and listening to the sounds of joyous young heathens enjoying my mother's candy. I've never looked at a can of Spam the same way since.

My usual Halloween consists of sitting on the sofa, enjoying a few stiff chardonnays, and passing out tootsie rolls to the children who knock at my door, but unfortunately due to an unfortunate incident last year, children have stopped coming to my apartment entirely.

A year ago on Halloween, after attending a grueling and terrifying seminar on oral hygiene, I'd decided that it would be a good idea to confiscate candy from the young'uns who stopped by.  I certainly wasn't going to be a contributing factor in the decaying of their youthful teeth and gums, so after emptying their bags into a waste basket behind my door, I offered them healthy snacks and pamphlets on oral cleanliness. This didn't go over very well with their parents and after getting into several vicious confrontations, several of which turned violent, the police were summoned and I was arrested and charged with assault, battery, disorderly conduct, indecent exposure, resisting arrest, and driving while intoxicated (when the police showed up, I'd fled my apartment, jumped into my car and attempted to drive away, which didn't work out due to the fact that I was blocked in by several patrol cars...a bad decision in hindsight.). Since then, minors are usually forbidden to come rapping at my door.

This year, when the 31^st of October rolled around, I was a bit depressed to say the least. I spent the better part of the afternoon crying bitter tears of despair and watching an NYPD Blue marathon on television.
When the sun started to drop down behind the horizon, I wiped the salty tears from my cheeks and trudged to my bedroom to get dressed. As horrible as this Halloween was, I was still determined to participate in my annual gourd-carving ritual.

When I was twelve, I'd invented a fun and relaxing way to express myself creatively, while still celebrating the holiday in my own way. Apparently, the fall season is a perfect time to buy large, round, orange gourds. I suppose most folks eat them raw or use them to make salads or casseroles, but I use them for carving. I've always loved carving faces and pictures into them with large serrated butchers' knives. It probably sounds like an outlandish and ridiculous activity, but since I wasn't allowed to go begging for candy, it was all I had to keep me sane as a child.  I'd journey to the local super market and select several of the large orange gourds from the huge pile of them outside of the store. I guess people devour these gourds like fresh apples because in order for the stores to stock so many of them at this exact time of year must mean that there's an enormous demand amongst the public. I've bitten into several of them, but honestly I don't see the big deal. When it comes to autumn foods, I'd much rather eat a bowl of soup or some sharp cheddar cheese. I digress.

I pulled on my tight khakis, slid into my favorite Halloween t-shirt (which coincidentally has a picture of a large orange gourd on the front), and crammed my feet into my worn penny loafers. Then I put on my snug toboggan cap and hit the road, carrying a large, frayed gunnysack over my shoulder.

Within the hour, I was standing before the large heap of robust orange gourds that stood in front of the local market. My hungry eyes travelled over many gourds but I was careful not to be too hasty. One needs a perfect gourd when it comes to carving. It has to be large, symmetrical, crisp, and firm in order to take the carving and thrashing that it's to be dealt. I was having difficulty concentrating due to the fact that there were several sniveling young children nearby, crying out for attention like famished baby birds, begging for regurgitated morsels in their nests. I scowled and glanced at a small lad that was stooping to grab an enormous orange gourd from the base of the stack.

"Mommy, can I get this one?" the boy yammered in a high pitched voice.

"Yes, you can get that one," The tired looking mother replied, "Are you sure you can handle it? It's pretty big!"

I couldn't help but laugh loudly at this exchange. Surely this ridiculous lad didn't think he could eat the entire orange gourd by himself. I turned to the child and commandeered the gourd from him fiercely.

"I think you need to reevaluate your decision, you little scamp," I besmirched the child, "Surely you don't think your tiny gut can hold everything that this large orange gourd has to offer!"

I assumed by the shocked look on the mother's face that she was exceedingly grateful to me for letting her son down easily. She was obviously too cowardly to stand up to the young boy. I'd surely saved the child from many inevitable episodes of violent heaving over the commode due to massively excessive gourd consumption. I winked at the child and flipped a shiny nickel in his direction. It bounced off his forehead awkwardly. With that, I turned briskly on my heel and marched off in the other direction to continue my gourd search.

After maliciously smashing several of the larger gourds onto the pavement to test them for sturdiness, I settled on the one that the young boy had been whining about several minutes before. After prying it from the stubborn boy's hands and scolding his mother for allowing such impunity, I placed it into my gunny sack and headed for home. I heard several shouts from other gourd shoppers, saying that I was "a horrible human being" and that I "needed to go inside and pay for my pumpkin (whatever that is)", but I chuckled at their naivety and continued on my way. If the shopkeepers of the establishment intended for me to pay for the gourds, then why would they be placed outside of the store? Regardless of that, I quickened my step and ducked into some trees along the side of the road so as to be less detectable.

I arrived home shortly thereafter and placed my orange gourd squarely in the center of the kitchen table.

From the drawer to the right of the sink, I selected several large serrated steak knives and a gravy ladle to help scoop out the innards of the gourd. Then, I poured myself a stiff Halloween cocktail, which consisted of bourbon whiskey and the remainder of a carton of apple juice, and seated myself proudly at the table, brandishing my shiny knives like a masterful surgeon about to delve into the belly of an unfortunate patient.

Without hesitation, I plunged one of the steak knives deep into the gourd and started vigorously sawing away at the orange flesh like a depraved lumberjack. My usual method is to saw a circular hole in the top of the gourd around the stem so as to provide an entrance for my scooping device. Then I usually proceed to empty the disgusting contents onto the floor to be cleaned up at a much later time. This time, however, I chose to start in the middle of the gourd and saw upwards towards the stem. Suddenly, there came a knocking at my door. My concentration was shattered and startled, I jerked the knife out of the orange vegetable, knocking the gourd to the floor and severing my left thumb. I cried out as blood shot from the wound like a horrific red geyser and I leapt to my feet. I stumbled to the sink to run water over the bloody stump, but was thwarted by the orange gourd, which lay directly in my path. My ankle rolled as I stepped onto the vegetable and crashed violently to the floor. I lay there in shock and agony with my cheek pressed against the linoleum and all at once I noticed that the area under my refrigerator was in desperate need of cleaning. I grimaced with disgust, but was brought back to a harsh reality by the repeated knocking at my front door.

With an exaggerated groan, I climbed to my feet and stumbled to the front door. Upon opening it, I was met with several horrified gasps. There, on my doorstep, stood a small boy dressed as some type of wizard. Behind him, stood his young mother and I smiled with recognition as I recalled them from the market earlier that evening. The small wizard immediately started crying and flung his arms around the midsection of his mother, who appeared to be growing nauseous at the sight of me. I glanced down and realized that the entire front of my body was covered in blood and still more blood was pouring from my left hand like some terrible crimson waterfall.

I stumbled back to the kitchen and with trembling slippery hands, lifted the large orange gourd from the floor. Then I carried it back to the front door where the mother and son still stood, frozen in shock. I bent down and placed the bloody gourd at the feet of the boy.

"Don't eat it all in one bite, you little rascal." I said shakily to the frightened youth, winking at him and flipping him a shiny nickel. Blood splattered the front of the wizard hat as the coin bounced awkwardly off the lad's forehead.