Writings » The Suit

The Suit

By Shitwincer at 2007-10-16 | Mystery | Printable version

He sat on the floor in a cuss-huffing daze, like a pilgrim caught with the thanksgiving cornucopia wedged in the wrong porthole.  This was definitely and unquestionably the worst 15 seconds of his life, and they continued bumbling as an inchworm crossing the freeway.  No matter what, he was fucked, simple and clean.  His costume, the one he had spent hours tailoring had been reduced to shambles, and like this fabric, he wished to run something through a paper shredder, probably flesh and blood.  Gozz Mulberry was one pissed off Simoan tonight, as the matching tuxedo he had cleverly made for his ball sack had become nothingness at the hands of some shitty Pomeranian.  After all the work he had thrusted into that bad boy, the macaroni schematics, the alchemy of running his member under a sewing machine, that dirty dancing feeling so momentary.  He wanted it to stay on, he wanted it to feel snug, glove fitted like the indie asshole cleverly named xxBleedxx in girl pants down the hall.  

"Fuck that posey-prodding twinkerbelle, I've seen female pandas with more heat then that vegan nancy-boy." He muttered. Vegetarians: mans detonator for self-extinction. His spite was a terrorist level pink, this was a bad day.

He had planned it all out, Halloween night:
Beers, bowling, wings, bitches.  Bicycle, bathing, banana republic.  Movies, cleavage, popcorn, penis.  The full Bob Saget ensemble and it was in grasp, almost.   A night rolling with innuendo and double-entendre, forsaken by his flat-mates little shit machine.  His pantalone pals still quaked from his massive attack, scratching the remains of dog plaque from his wounds with a stolen credit card.  

"Neutered by Gingivitis," he chuckled, trying to put himself in better spirits, "Damn thing musta though it was a penguin or a well dressed rat."  

He had noticed he let his bikini wax go in the last few months, thinking the new trend would be spiked pubic hair just like the Brooklyn blowout, rug matching the drapes kinda deal, sexy like sonic the hedgehog.  He even had it faded up with the nike sign carved into his man grass, fucking smokin'. If this wasn't style points, suicide would be the second door, he'd bet all of Eureka's castle on that biznitch. So far the tally had no leads, only screaming, and not the good kind.
 
He winced back to reality, as the combat medic training kicked in, reciting the recipe for cheese grater burns of the scrotum. Pretty much the same remedy as genital warts, Old Custard cocktail they called it: Leg urination, iodine teabaggin', a rabies shot, and decent blowjob.  His teeth grinded at the visage of his oompla-loompa shaded package in the mirror beside his bed.  At least he had gotten even; Chloe was hanging from the flagpole just out of arms reach from the stairwell down the hall.  He conducted this the same way he dealt with women shorter then him, a good backhand is like Barry White to the proper bitch.  Artistic duck tape magic plus a garden hose, and you got yourself a breathing beer bong.  A bottle of windex later, she'll be drunk as a failed liver.  Probably snapped her tiny neck by now, but that's where twine and pedophile scout powwows come in handy, the most crucial of childhood lessons.

"Fuck that leg raping dust-bunny," He retorted with an iron heart, "I've had McDonald's sandwiches bigger then princess cotton ball." At least it was a warrior's death, like a Mongol jumping of an iceberg on fire, or running onto the platform of a catapult only to be flung 8 miles to your doom. 

"Better then dying of natural causes," he smiled, eating the rest of Chloe's fancy feast with his steak-fingered hands. 

He needed something to take his mind off the last ten minutes, maybe something exotic, like a vacation to Action Park or an underwater breathing session with paired betas.  Actually, a bladder-buster & burritos x dos sounded like a choir of topless women in synchronized Gregorian chant right now, very clutch.  Yet he yearned to stick with the night as he originally planned.  So manned with combat boots and a sharpie marker, he proceed to find out if the glory hole trick really works, cinematically, along the Friday night aisles. Something PG-13 would rack in some digits, and he figured his albino stomach would work just as well as any piece of sheetrock.

‘The night is mine!" as he raised on fist into the sunset, mimicking as many 80's montages as possible, naked and proud, doing the Charleston through Times Square.
‘The night is mine!"