Basically, this is a 10 part or so heap of short stories I've been writing on and off when high, which I'm looking at continuing until I have some kind of book. I'm making it up as I go, just kind of fucking with things and gearing towards some sort of vague distant plot point goal thing. I'll post three or four, and see if anyone digs it. I just wanted to share, as I'm sick of thinking that I'll never finish any kind of lengthy short story, and I've finally made something 15 or more pages long all up! So, I'll post a few below this post.
1. THE ENCOUNTER Suddenly I was confronted by an immensely muscular but hugely fat man. He was very tall, and very broad, and had a lot of muscle tissue beneath the inch or so of fat that coated him like an ice cream. His arms were the size of a football across, but had were flabby at the back and underneath with a soft fatty skin. His whole body was like this, with bulging bodybuilder muscles (I had been previously informed that he was a retired body-builder) that had fat all around them. The effect was terrifying, he was actually very much like a giant, or a troll. I considered that if I hit him, it wouldn't hurt for the layer of fat upon him, but him punching me would be like being hit by a fucking freight train that absorbed you in a muscular fat pit of his hide. So I didn't hit him, and said to him “Hello neighbour!†He roared “No, I'm not your neighbour, you cunt!†·[FONT="] [/FONT]cunt (noun) – 3. A highly offensive term for somebody who is viewed with great dislike or contempt, especially by a man “Why's that?†“WHY IS WHAT?†“There's no need to get angry my friend! I'm -“ “NO! I'M NOT YOUR FRIEND. I'm very angry with you, you worthless cunt. So I'm going to fucking PUNCH YOU IN THE JAW.†I stepped to the side of his swinging arm. I was terrified, I'm fairly sure that he had a crowbar or something he would pick up if I angered him, and he seemed sufficiently angry. I shrieked – “What the FUCK is this? What are you angry about?†“What do you think dickhead? I'm going to give you one shot.†He then punched my left arm, hard. He is therefore a right hander, and I consider this. I thought of one good punch to the nose or jaw that, if I am well muscled enough I could break something hard and drop him, and get at least enough time to run through the door and out to the car. But if he caught me, I would be brutally savaged. Thus, I said “Look, I don't want to hit you! What are you angry about?†He then punched me hard to the jaw. I saw it coming, and I tilted my head to go with it. The blow grazed like a stray bullet, but was certainly nothing to be upset about. I yelled “WHAT IS THIS? WHY ARE YOU HITTING ME?†A look of fatty congealment came over his aging face. His breath stank, and he said “Why am I hitting you? What's wrong with you?†He seemed to reconsider “- wait, I don't care, fuck you anyway...†And thus swung a blow to my ribs. His punch had the effect that he'd schemed, and I coughed hard. The blow was crushing and ached. The whole rib felt blue, but it didn't bleed and I was grateful. I felt sick and queasy, and I proceeded to wretch. He stood above me fuming. “Do you understand that I am going to rip your face off?†‘WHAT DID HE SAY?' I heard myself shriek in the confines of my mind. He was going to murder me. He was going to mutilate me; it was going to be incredibly painful and brutal. Thinking it over I understood that my face being scalped off like an Indian artefact would not necessarily kill me. If done with precision someone could survive, at least for a few hours. Or this psychopath could just stab me in between my bleeding teeth and sever my throat. After he'd taken my face, anyhow, for whatever sick purpose he had. I had to fight back. Unless he was joking. If he was trying to humour me after a relatively non damaging punch, so he could initiate the major beating. My face wouldn't get stolen, but teeth would be broken, with a few bones and blood would be spilled. It would be awful, but I could deal with it in comparison to being killed. Unless I fought back, I would get beaten or beaten and fatally mutilated. Either way, I was going to get fucked up unless I struck right at this instant. I kicked him square between his soft, milky thighs and felt contact with his genitals. He clenched his legs at the impact, and I quickly withdrew my foot lest he trap it. He shrieked as I did this, a bellowing “GGGGGNNNNNNAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWRRR†Before settling into groaning and groping at me. I ran. At the door I yelled back “You're sick, I'm fucking off to the police station and I'll be safe!†And then Darcy was gone.
2. THE ARRIVAL Mr Beazley had arrived. The door was opened, the coat was taken off, the music was turned on and Mr Beazley’s mask was put on. Mr Beazley then departed. Mr Beazley’s cloak chamber smelled awful, but not like the stench of rot one would first think it would. The chamber smelt of chemical preservatives, salts and compounds that were coloured like a rainbow in a picture book. Upon the stand, Beazley’s growing coat hung in all its glory. Through the eyes of a child, Mr Beazley contemplated his coat. The faces upon it were beginning to shrink, but retained the striking and grotesque realisation that it was (or had been) somebody’s face. There were a total of 20 little faces dotting the fleshy quilt, and the coat was looking magnificent. An adult face over the left breast was still needed to continue patching, and Mr Beazley’s mind was turning like a cog. He looked down upon his bodybuilder’s body and contemplated the power, the wonder. The yearning. Rubbing his tiny eyes, Mr Beazley walked towards the coat. Stroking it with his fingers, he softly chuckled and thought of the future, and he thought of waiting. He took off his mask and put it upon its proper port of accommodation. Mr Beazley then departed. The Baby-Face-Coat’n’Mask Man was rising.
3. JUSTICE Several hours had passed since my encounter with the troll. My guts and face still ached, and were beginning to show the tell tale signs of future bruising. That fucker was going to get his own back, I'd see to that. “So when did this assault occur blah blah blah?†The policeman spoke, a flat monotone. I noticed that he hasn't blinked in the entire time I have been here. “Earlier today. I was assua- HE RAPED ME!†I shrieked, voice rising with pain and humiliation. ·[FONT="] [/FONT]Rape (noun) - an act of plunder, violent seizure, or abuse; despoliation; violation: the rape of the countryside, or my facial features A look of horror and disgust (and sudden shock) marked his features. “HE RAPED YOU?! Oh boy, this matter is much more serious than I perceived! As a victim of twenty seven counts of rape myself, I can fully emphasize with your plight Mr Hay. I give you my personal commitment that we will-“ He paused to put his hand upon mine and paused to look deeply into my eyes with the sincerity that someone who has been raped 27 times can only give. “ – see justice upheld.†I was then whisked out of the room so that ‘administrative procedures pertaining to the updated allegations' could be done whatever the hell they do with this sort of thing. An officer drove me to a safe house, and I felt safe there. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- At the day of the trial, I stood upon the witness bench as all courtbound folks do, and the lawyer begun the defence. “Darcy Hay, do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth by the grace of God?†I did. “I doâ€. “Then let's begin. On the twentieth of November you claim that that this man, Mr Kimberly Beazley, raped and assaulted you inside of his house.†“Yes.†“Is it true that this attack on both physical and emotional wellbeing was unprovoked?†“Yes.†“Are you sure Mr. Hay? We have received evidence that not only did you smear fecal matter on Mr Beazley's car, front porch and dog, who is remarked to be a very placid dog. We also have evidence of graffiti upon Mr Beazley's letterbox, and indeed that you urinated in Mr Beazley's letterbox. We hold you guilty on a count of vandalism.†The courtroom lay silent in shock and horror. These things can be explained, and will be explained. Somewhat. “We also have evidence that Mr. Beazly never sexually penetrated you in anywa-†JESUS! “Sexually penetrated me?! No, no he raped my honour and dignity, stripped me of my pride and emotional wellbeing, but I never told that he raped me. With his dick and such.†I grimaced at the thought; Jesus Christ, where did they get this from? What in Satan's name possessed them to charge me of this... let alone merely THINK it? As though they'd heard me think, here was uproar all around. Men yelled, women swooned, babies cried (Mr Beazley licked his lips), and the officer from the station looked distinctly betrayed. “ORDER! ORDER!†Yelled the judge, slamming his gavel down as though he was tenderising a prime steak “Mr. Hay, what do you have to say for yourself?†“Your Honour, I plead insanity.†I gave a lop sided grin. My charms would get me out of this! The Judge was furious. “You're not on trial here you fool! This is completely unacceptable, all charges towards Mr. Beazley are dropped, and we will discuss court reparations immediately after the jury and spectators exit this mockery of a trial.†A seedy grin spread across the fat man's face, his jowls having what was surely a hefty workout. Oh well, I thought to myself, at least Beazley doesn't know about his garden hose. Yet, anyhow. Meanwhile, I sat still and waited.
4. CONVERSATIONS I was grilled, and I was crushed. The Judge said I had to pay back $400 of court time, my lawyer (though he doesn't belong to me) was demanding reparation, and the policeman was telling me “You're scum, you're an utter disgrace. As a victim of 27 rapes, I can tell you that what you've done is sick. People like me who have been raped 27 times deserve better than this, this BULLSHIT.†I wasn't particularly impressed, and I wasn't feeling very high by now either. Only poor, tired, and afraid of what Beazley was going to do next. “Look, I'm tired and I've had a hard day. It's no good that you've been raped 20 times –“ “27 times.†By now, this was burning me up. I had to ask. “Ummm...look, can I ask you, candidly, how have you been raped 27 times? I mean, how did this happen?†My hands sprang into some kind of motion that fit the silence nicely. “... How?†The policeman blushed. “You can't ask, it's very private and something I don't like to talk about.†There was a tear in his eye, and I thought it would be better to get him to go away with something gentle yet dismissive. “I don't believe you, but I'd like to go home now, so...†He was angry, and spat “WHAT?! DON'T BELIEVE ME?! Son, I've been involuntary anally penetrated27 times! By 27 different men! Rape, son! RAPE! I KNOW THE PAIN... AND THE GUILT! And then I get some smartarse little prick telling me you don't believe me. Do you want proof?†He actually seemed furious. “Look, no, really –“ “DO YOU WANT PROOF?! YOU DON'T BELIEVE ME, REMEMBER?†“I think –“ “REMEMBER?!†“I believe you. I believe you, really, it must be awful for you. I can only shudder to think of the pain-†He nodded with agreement. “-the guilt-“ He nodded again, like a tragic listener at some support group. “ – the shame –“ His head snapped back and his face went redder. “Shame? I will not let this defeat me! I AM NOT ASHAMED! I'm a survivor, and I'm proud! Hell, I'm proud of being raped 27 times! I'm proud! Toughened me up! PROUD!†Jesus fucking Christ. This was too much, so I ran back to my car and ignored him yelling at me as I drove off away from this buffoon. “Look, I need to see you. I'm not lookin' to beat you Darcy, I'm still fucking pissed but you're worth more to me if you, cerghh (he coughed), cooperate with what I want. And it's what you want too Darcy, it's what you want. I'm talkin' money. Get around here.†Thus Beazley spake through the speaker phone grille. And I was totally undecided. The reckless Darcy Hay said “Look, he said he's not going to beat you. And he's talking money, which you need. He's a liar, he's greedy, he's ruthless and he formerly wanted to remove your face. But if he wants me to cooperate with something that his greedy little brain can see will benefit both of us, then I have to check it out.†The cautious Darcy Hay said. “If there's any benefit to you, it's going to be a by-product of him getting what he wants. And he wanted to take your face, he might still want to. He's fucking crazy, he's probably some kind of murderer. He must be. He is! Don't go there, not for money, not for mutual benefit, not for anything.†The moderate Darcy Hay picked up the phone and rang him “Kim†“Darcy†“What do you want Kim?†“Darcy, I'll buy you back. You haven't signed nothin' with Roger, have you?†“That's my business. What arrangement are you talking Kim?†“Don't be a smartarse, I can crush you and you fucking know it. But as for the arrangement, well –“ “Well?†“LET ME FINISH. FUCK. The arrangement depends on what you're willing to do for me, but as you know, I'm a wealthy man. And I want to be wealthier.†He gave a disgusting little laugh. “Why don't you come on over Darcy? I won't touch you.†“Kim, you're a liar. You're a welsher. I don't believe you.†“You've got a mouth, and you've got balls talkin' like that to someone like me. You just come on over and see what I've got on offer. And what I want.†The moderate Darcy said “Alright. But I'm gonna bring a knife, just in case you have any intention of hitting me.†“You do that. You do that...†Beazley hung up, and I mirrored his action and laid my phone down. I found T.B, packed a cone for courage and enjoyed the smoke. Feeling considerably better about Beazley's offer, I got in my car and slowly drove off. I had departed.
Well, I've just figured out numbers 2 and 3 are mixed up, I posted them in the wrong order. My bad, just skip the second one, read the third one directly after reading the first one. Then read the second one, proceeding to the fourth.