A long, gay, rain was falling. The streets were dark, and unpleasant. This was the kind of day that you didn’t walk outside, because of rain, and your personal depression. Oh, do you not have depression? I’m so sorry. I thought I was writing a book for smart people, who can tell how smart they are by if they have depression and if it makes them live in a manner that’s quirky and difficult, but pleasant for the outsider. Some big chunky clouds were shooting out fat sky turds, the casual streetwise way to say rain, the way a person who’s comfortable with swearing and uncomfortable with the rules of society might. Am I such a person? Maybe. Let’s not get distracted. It was wet out, like a cab drivers butt after his shift driving his cab. It was dark out, like a cab drivers butt in modern America. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, we all have to start somewhere. But maybe if we didn’t have all these damn immigrants with no standards we could have a powerful cab drivers union, and men and women could make a good, honest living doing simple but needed work like driving cabs, or creating the next great American novel, maybe a novel a lot like this one – exactly like it, in my opinion. But hey, what the hell do I know? Apparently nothing, if you listen to my ex-wife, my girlfriend, my barber, my boss, or the standardized testing apparatus of this great nation. Nothing that is, except for this: This was one hell of a rainy night.
A man was stutter stepping down the sidewalk, covered in rain water as well as his own sweat. You couldn’t tell the difference by looking at him but oh boy, if you smelled him! He was stutter stepping for two reasons. One, the hard rain was creating an optical illusion, time seeming to slow and start as the great drops streaked down the not very light sky and splashed in big, regressive bloops on the street. Two, he was drunk, and wasn’t walking very good. You might say he wasn’t walking very well, but actually as soaked as he was he was walking almost exactly like a well, if wells could walk, sloshing water and trailing a big wooden bucket. The man wasn’t trailing, but he was tailing someone. For this wasn’t just any man, though who among us is any man in this modern liberal-capitalist world, we all think we’re ourselves and nobody else, unique snowflakes. It isn’t snowing though, it’s raining, and every two raindrops are exactly alike, just like most people. This man was also like most people, except in one key respect: he was a private detective, a gumshoe, a freelance crime fighter, or crime dooer, depending on who was paying. His name? Jeff America. His target at that moment? Donald “Gordito” Calzone, The Italian Taco Bell Magnate.
“I had better buckle up, hold onto my butt, and get ready to rock and roll” thought Jeff America to himself, “Because this will be the biggest best most exciting case I’ve ever been on, and I’ll probably experience personal growth and meet a girl.”
Jeff was right.
my wife showed me pictures of family that were sending their kids off for the first day of school
one of the more notables was the homeschool boy who would be a kindergartener sitting on front porch with "a patriots guide to u.s. history" and sign he clearly made '1st day of school'
my immediate thought was to one up them with our first grader and zinn's history book.
my wife said naahh, how about a little fuck and destroy
The fat, horribly fat, incredibly fat, so fat, really really fat Donald “The Don” “Gordito” “Calvin Zone” Calzone laughed, wetly, and fatly. His laugh was like a walrus coughing. He was also like a walrus in other ways, such as his fatness, his profile when laying on a beach, and his general inclination towards sexual assault if left to his own devices. He was wearing a shirt, and pants. He also wore shoes.
“I’m afraid you’re on the Amtrack to fucksville now, Jeff.” Said Donald, his voice like a meaty bag of meat being slapped into mud. “You could have been on the bullet train to fucksville, but you made me mad. Jeff, you’re going to get fucked like James Brown never figured out how: slowly, and with a degree of subtly. You see Jeff, I’ve placed a call. Police Chief Randy Savage just heard about a crime that happened fifteen years ago, a crime that you committed. This may not be a crime you remember committing, but some young adults do, and they’ll be happy to testify against you, as a favor to me. You know Jeff, some crimes have no statute of limitations. Some crimes, they can follow you forever. This crime, this crime that you’ll soon learn you committed, isn’t one of those crimes. I was short sited, and didn’t speak to my lawyer before calling some favors in. Regardless, people are going to think you’re a HUGE asshole.” Donald stopped speaking, out of breath.
The silence hung in the air like a mimed jacket placed on a mimed coatrack by an improviser doing a space work exercise in his improvisation class. Like the improviser, Jeff was about to pay for what he’d been doing the last six weeks, and he wasn’t going to like the bill. Unlike the improviser, Jeff’s gun wasn’t made out of his index finger and a thumb. Jeff still had some options. Finally, Jeff spoke.
“I’ll tell the police the same thing I’m going to tell you right now, Donald Calzone. The only crime that I’ve committed is the crime of murder.” Jeff drew his revolver and shot Donald in his big fat gross weird gut 17 times. He screamed swear words while he did it, lots of them, ones that most people don’t even know and indicate a breadth and depth of experience, like “minge” and “gutmuffin.” Jeff swiped his hand over his brow, noticing finally that he’d lost his Kangol seven chapters ago, when he’d rumbled with the local street toughs and won their respect with his fairly high level rumbling.
“I probably won’t tell the police about the murder, actually.” Said Jeff to either no one or the absent god that haunts all lives with the void he creates, depending on how you look at things.
piss posted:can't wait till it gets to the romance section
bippy's breath quickens.
BadNewzKennels posted:best op in this site's history
I Like How it got 48 upvotes when theres not even 48 people who post or lurk here
VoxNihili posted:i accidentally downvoted instead of upvoting, sorry
you cna change your votes you noob
daddyholes posted:I will take it on faith that this would be funny if I had read that book. An upvote for you, Kevin.
i thought itw as funny and i havent read that, or any other, book
The sound of their hooves like a chorus line of thunder claps, the horses ran. Wild and terror-struck, the horses ran. As if to match their sound, the sky rumbled and clapped as well, thundering like a wild herd of maddened horses. Which had begun first, the stampede or the thunderstorm? Some people might have said the horses were scared by the thunder. But there, in that madness and noise and stomping, Jeff America thought perhaps differently. Perhaps he thought that the sky it’s self was responding to the real and raw power of these horses jumping and running. Perhaps for just a moment Jeff thought that God had come down to earth and taken the form of some horses and was all going buck wild in his area. We’ll never know for sure what Jeff was thinking in that moment, though, because you can never know another human’s heart, not truly.
“I’ve got to get away from these wild horses and fast,” thought Jeff as he struggled back and forth against the wooden stockade that held him in place like an overzealous schoolteacher, the kind the 1990s made us assume no longer exist but probably still do. An idea took hold of Jeff suddenly, like the way the stocks had been clapped onto his body by the goons at the dock. Alternately, it struck him like the lightning bolts which now struck the flowing grasses of the prairie where they had dumped him. Plan now fully formed, Jeff felt a surge of power flowing through his body like the surging wild horses that surged around him, power like the power of the thunderclaps which made them flee. Jeff began to rock back and forth, twisting himself and his stocks not away from the horses, as a regular person might because of the fear that grips them much like it grips the horses themselves, but towards the horses.
“If one of these horses can just manage to smash it’s hoof into these stocks then the stocks will be smashed and I’ll be free to ride a horse all the way back to my final revenge with the sensual full assed yet evil woman who double crossed me, Veronica Lodge. But even the slightest mistake, hesitation, flinch, or show of being a little wuss will cause the horse foot to instead crash into my skull. Damn! If only I was still wearing my Kangol!” Thought Jeff to himself. “But this is no time for thinking, it’s time for doing. If this whole caper has taught me any lessons about anything, it’s that thinking is for men of weak will and no ambition, men who simply wish to find an excuse for their own inaction. No, that isn’t for me. I may die here, alone except for horses on these plains, but if that is the case my tombstone will simply read: ‘Jeff America: He was a dooer.’”
Jeff gritted his teeth, leaned into the horses, and waited. Death or freedom, it was out of his hands. Only the horses could judge him now. Time seemed to slow down and the howling wind, the roaring sky, and the screaming horses all merged into one single sound, like the earth’s busy signal. A flash of lightning, very close, lit the entire plains like god opening his refrigerator. Jeff waited for the boom of thunder but did not hear it, another louder sound filled his ears: splintering wood and shattering horse. Jeff stood, the horses parting around him like the red sea of horses. His watch had been smashed by the goons who had ambushed him but he had no need of it, not now. He knew in his heart and soul what time it was: payback time.
Keven posted:CHAPTER ONE
A long, gay, rain was falling. The streets were dark, and unpleasant. This was the kind of day that you didn’t walk outside, because of rain, and your personal depression. Oh, do you not have depression? I’m so sorry. I thought I was writing a book for smart people, who can tell how smart they are by if they have depression and if it makes them live in a manner that’s quirky and difficult, but pleasant for the outsider. Some big chunky clouds were shooting out fat sky turds, the casual streetwise way to say rain, the way a person who’s comfortable with swearing and uncomfortable with the rules of society might. Am I such a person? Maybe. Let’s not get distracted. It was wet out, like a cab drivers butt after his shift driving his cab. It was dark out, like a cab drivers butt in modern America. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, we all have to start somewhere. But maybe if we didn’t have all these damn immigrants with no standards we could have a powerful cab drivers union, and men and women could make a good, honest living doing simple but needed work like driving cabs, or creating the next great American novel, maybe a novel a lot like this one – exactly like it, in my opinion. But hey, what the hell do I know? Apparently nothing, if you listen to my ex-wife, my girlfriend, my barber, my boss, or the standardized testing apparatus of this great nation. Nothing that is, except for this: This was one hell of a rainy night.
A man was stutter stepping down the sidewalk, covered in rain water as well as his own sweat. You couldn’t tell the difference by looking at him but oh boy, if you smelled him! He was stutter stepping for two reasons. One, the hard rain was creating an optical illusion, time seeming to slow and start as the great drops streaked down the not very light sky and splashed in big, regressive bloops on the street. Two, he was drunk, and wasn’t walking very good. You might say he wasn’t walking very well, but actually as soaked as he was he was walking almost exactly like a well, if wells could walk, sloshing water and trailing a big wooden bucket. The man wasn’t trailing, but he was tailing someone. For this wasn’t just any man, though who among us is any man in this modern liberal-capitalist world, we all think we’re ourselves and nobody else, unique snowflakes. It isn’t snowing though, it’s raining, and every two raindrops are exactly alike, just like most people. This man was also like most people, except in one key respect: he was a private detective, a gumshoe, a freelance crime fighter, or crime dooer, depending on who was paying. His name? Jeff America. His target at that moment? Donald “Gordito” Calzone, The Italian Taco Bell Magnate.
“I had better buckle up, hold onto my butt, and get ready to rock and roll” thought Jeff America to himself, “Because this will be the biggest best most exciting case I’ve ever been on, and I’ll probably experience personal growth and meet a girl.”
Jeff was right.
bravo, friend keven
