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Hank forced his finger under the tab of a cold Alamo Beer can, but the metal bit beneath his fingernail and briefly bent the nail backwards. He sighed. As usual, the metal was flimsy, but the flesh was flimsier. Where there once were four, there are now only three, he thought to himself, noting that Dale was absent, as he had been missing for three days. "Probably up to something harebrained, I'll tell you what," Hank had reassured the other men. "He'll be back." But deep down inside, he wondered what had become of his closest friend. Texas remained impenetrably silent on the matter. It paid no mind to the affairs of mere men. It did not weep for their follies. As Bill nursed a can of Alamo, he whimpered under his breath. It was a pathetic noise, a sound that came from a man who had been broken by years of brainwashing and abuse. Hank imagined it coming from a POW as he saw the interrogator returning to his cell for the thousandth time. It made him strangely angry. He wanted to crush Bill under his boot, to put him out of his misery. Dang it. Hank tried to ignore the noise and refocus on his drink. Condensation sweated on the pale skin of the can...but suddenly it was Dale's pale skin and sweat that Hank saw. "I'm on to something big, Haaaaaank," Dale had said in his whiny, nasally voice. "The Bootstrap Paradox, Einstein, Wormhole-deniers...they're all smoke and mirrors to hide the truth that's in plain sight." For months, Dale had grown increasingly obsessed with the concept of a time machine. And then, recently, he had come to Hank--his noxious body odor clinging to him like a ghost, his skin pale and sagging from his malnourished skeleton, his knuckles burnt from cigarettes chain-smoked to the filter--and seized Hank by his Strickland Propane polo. Despite going perhaps days without food or sleep, his grasp was frighteningly firm. "Hank...Hank. Hank--do you have any uranium?" The question came out strange, almost like a purr. When Dale looked at Hank, he saw that one of Dale's eyes was pointed in a completely wrong direction; It yawed off to one side at a startling angle. "Ungh, what happened to your eye, Dale?" "Uranium, Hank: Do you have any of it?" His fingers were like cold claws digging into Hank's shoulders. Suddenly something hard poked Hank in the stomach--a pistol. "I...I don't want to kill you, Hank, but I'm not going to let a little supply and demand get in the way of my time machine. So I'm going to make a demand, and you're going to supply me with some goddamned uranium." Dale licked his lips rapidly. "Dale," Hank's eyes were full of sadness, "I don't have any uranium." Suddenly, Dale let Hank go and sprinted for Hank's front yard. He crouched down on the lawn and snatched something out of the grass, clutching it tightly in his bony hands. When Hank looked closer, he realized that it was one of Ladybird's turds. "I'll kill you later, Hank," Dale hissed, and threw himself over the fence that divided their properties. For the first time in his entire life, Hank couldn't bring himself to finish his beer. He reflected on those final moments with Dale. "Will he ever come back?" Bill had asked, a child in man's flesh. "He will...he always does," Hank had replied. But part of Hank hoped he wouldn't. Cream-of-Plenty fucked around with this message at 05:22 on Aug 21, 2014 |
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Aug 21, 2014 05:20
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| # ¿ Apr 28, 2024 13:54 |
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Even as he pedaled down the flat stretch of road that was Rainey Street, Bobby huffed and wheezed. When he arrived at his destination, he thrust the toes of his sneakers into the asphalt and let them drag his bike to a lurching halt. The neighborhood was alive with the sound of new neighbors. "Sigh," he panted. Beads of sweat ran down his heavy white brow, across his bloated pink cheeks, and dangled down off of his virtually formless chin. "There goes the neighborhood." The words were spoken slowly, their meaning counterfeit. "You don't even know what that means," his cohort, Joseph, snapped at him. "It's true," Bobby mumbled, unfazed. He snorted and spat mucus into the dirt. "I do not know what that means." The two boys were the same age, but Joseph was already twice as tall as Bobby, with long, gangly red limbs that dragged behind him like broken tree branches. He wore an intensely ugly scowl on his face, enhanced by the dark wisps of puberty beneath his broad nose. Lately, the boy wrestled with a perpetual state of rage that drove him to heinous acts and brazen crimes. "Who do you think it is?" Bobby asked as they watched the movers unloading a truck trailer. The answer was immaterial, however--whoever they were, he already knew that Joseph would want to kill them. Joseph stalked the moving truck as he approached, head ducked down, shoulder hunched. He braced himself against the smooth metal of the trailer and peered into the garage. "Chinese, probably." Just then, the boys caught a glimpse of somebody who wasn't with the moving crew: A paunchy, middle-aged man with no more than half a dozen hairs spanning his scalp and a gut that sagged around his waist like a deflated balloon. Bobby reflexively reached down and touched his own stomach and pet it lightly. The most unusual thing about him, however, was his-- "--yellow skin." Joseph breathed. "I knew it. The Chinese." Bobby reluctantly countered. "He doesn't look Chinese to me." Joseph's ugly face twisted into a grotesque grimace. "What would you know, you fat idiot?" "Nothin' worth knowing," Bobby agreed. One of the movers approached the man and handed him a clipboard. "Mr. Sampson, if you don't mind, we need your signature." "But I am illiterate," Mr. Sampson replied sorely. Reluctantly, the yellow man scrawled a doodle on the signature line--a vaguely phallic shape followed by Sampson's crude approximations of language--and the mover disappeared again. "Are we gonna do this or what?" Joseph produced a short length of lead pipe and clutched it tightly in one hand. Before Bobby could even answer, Joseph was upon Sampson, savaging the back of his head with the pipe. The bright red blood was a startling contrast on his mustard yellow skin; flecks of bones and brains shot off into the air as Joseph hit him again and again. The man had fallen almost instantly, and Joseph was reducing his skull to barely a smear. Tears welled up in the boy's dark eyes, and he forced himself to sing the Song of the Destroyer. "You...you need to save the brains!" Bobby whined in his raspy voice. "Joseph I think you're doin' it wrooooooong!" But Joseph was oblivious. Joseph was a prisoner of his own secret song, which came out of his throat in a low, undulating moan. A horrible sound, it caused Bobby's eyes to vibrate and his teeth to sting. When the music was over, Joseph knelt down and fingered a dab of carnage off of the driveway; he applied the mess to his forehead, drawing a rudimentary six-pointed star on his red skin--the mark of the Knowledge Eater. A strangely effervescent sensation immediately overcame him, his limbs weightless and his head swirling with an intoxicating sense of limitless power. He drooled out a, "it's like...it's like being a feeling...like...like I'm a river of soda spilling over a whole mountain of popcorn!" "Candy corn!" Bobby shouted excitedly. That's when they both saw him: A boy, similar in age and size, with the same mustard yellow skin. His head was shaped vaguely like a meat mallet; the spiky end formed his "hair". They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, everyone silent, everyone motionless.
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Aug 22, 2014 03:20
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Say Nothing posted:I don't know about Bill, but everybody else had a go on Luanne. You are sexy beauty. Luanne rubbed a broken chunk of lipstick on her puckered, chapped mouth, making several loops before finally examining herself in the mirror. Her lips were obliterated by a heavy ring of greasy red color that reached from the base of her nose to the crease of her chin. She smiled, revealing yellowed teeth tinged with more red. "Beau-ti-ful." Tasty love-beauty. She tugged at the belt of her dingy blue robe and let it fall off of her nude form--the moment it hit the tile, it began soaking up old puddles of water that had nowhere else to go. "More beau-ti-ful." She squinted and studied her reflection, but it was difficult to make out details in the dim light of the bathroom: Despite a dozen light bulbs circling the mirror, only a couple of them still worked. Lines stretched across her tired face, aging her well beyond her years...but perhaps it was only because of the poor lighting. "Beau-tyyyyyyyy..." She pressed her fingers into a small mound of concealer and began rubbing the powder into her cheeks. She noted that it did not match the color of her own flesh. "This is for someone else's skin," she told the person in the mirror. Still, she persevered, applying several more handfuls to her nose and forehead until her face was covered in thick tan splotches. Sexy beastly beauty. Luanne reached for the plastic Dallas Cowboys-themed cup that sat next to the sink--a mustachioed Mark Tuinei grimacing for the camera--and held it under her nose. She breathed deeply, as if recalling distant memories from a long-lost piece of clothing. The brew was predominately bleach, ammonia, and powdered detergent, and the chemical stench that emanated from it burned her nostrils and filled her head with a pleasant nausea. "Baby beauty." Like a penitent worshiper cleansing his hands in a font of holy water, she slowly dipped hers into the cup and lifted handfuls of the liquid to her supple breasts. Although much of it spilled between her fingers, she rubbed what little remained on her skin until her chest took on an oily sheen. "White...is right." Snow White was pale as milk...but she was just a fairy tale. Soon, Luanne would be the real thing. She would glow like a pure white light, a beacon of hope for all who might gaze upon her. Leaning her head back, she dumped the rest of the cup's contents across her chest; it spilled in a thousand different directions, reawakening parts of her that had long been lost to a strange numbness. Still dripping, she knelt down and picked up the bath robe once more, balled it up, and stuck it on the top of her head. She grinned, for it was not unlike a glorious crown. "I....am a queeeeeeeen." She exited the bathroom, taking long, dramatic strides like she imagined a queen would take; she envisioned rose petals raining down on her head as a million subjects wept and rattled the bars of the ornate fences that circled her alabaster palace. A thousand princes and celebrities would serve as her suitors, lining up for a fleeting chance to dine on her dainties. Even her uncle Hank would... "BWAAAAAAAH!" Hank gasped. "Luanne, what are you doing?!" "Am I beau-ti-ful?" she asked her uncle. "Are you one of my royal suitors, Uncle Hank?" "Put some dang clothes on, Luanne!" At that moment, Peggy walked through the front door with a bag of groceries clutched in her thick, strong hands. Her eyes snapped to Hank, and then to Luanne, and finally back to Hank. "Hank Rutherford Hill!" she screamed, dropping the bag. "NOT AGAIN! You're NOT doing THIS to ME! AGAIN!" "But Peggy!" Hank weakly protested--too late. Peggy stormed to the kitchen, and when she returned, she was clutching a paring knife.
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Aug 23, 2014 06:54
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There's a really good story in Bill being on top of Peggy at some point BB (before bobby).
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Aug 23, 2014 08:51
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shiksa posted:ho-yeah Can you imagine that? Peggy's size 17 feet bobbing through the air above her, Bill Dauterive grunting and sweating over her like a dumb pig as he defiles her strangely masculine nethers. "Ho-YEAH!" Peggy exclaims and squeezes Bill's forearms so hard that she shatters his malnourished bones. He's such a desperate dirtbag that he keeps going, knowing full well that this may be the last time he has his wiener in anything living.
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Aug 23, 2014 09:04
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The toilet was clogged. Again. A soupy mess--a thousand shades of brown--slowly climbed up the white ceramic bowl, leaving Bill to wonder where the high water mark would be. As he stood and watched with expressionless pig eyes, he was strangely reminded of his Aunt Esme and New Orleans. She would always say "New Ohleeeens", and the voice now echoed in his head. He faintly wondered what she would do in this situation. And then, as the bowl continued to fill with human filth, his mind roamed into darker areas. Of levies. Of Katrina. Walls of poo poo-water a hundred feet high, sweeping across the landscape and swallowing the world up. He could practically hear the water rushing in his head. And then it was replaced with the sound of thick, chunky toilet water spilling onto the tile floor; gurgling and burbling and bubbling, as if suddenly possessed with a life of its own. And the stink--the stink invaded his nostrils and forced tears to his eyes. The boys had remarked that you could always stomach your own "brand" (or perhaps even savor it)...yet, standing there, he suddenly found it to be intolerable. Bill inched back from the growing mess, but he never removed his gaze. New Ohleeeeeeens... Eventually he found himself standing in the doorway, hand on the knob, with almost the entire floor drowned in filth. He slowly closed the door. On the way out, he passed by another closed bathroom door. He would have to figure out a new place to commit his shameful acts. "Hey Bill," Hank greeted him when he stepped outside. Bill let out a soft sigh and felt a smile come to his face. "Hey, fellas..." An Alamo Beer was pushed into his hand and he immediately cracked it open; a cold mist played across his fingers as he lifted the can to his mouth and began the day.
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Sep 1, 2014 22:15
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Bobby looks like Bill: "The two rutted like a pair of pigs, sweating and grunting and seemingly struggling against one another's selfish passions. When he was finished and had filled her with his pathetic seed, Bill rolled over onto the cool concrete and let out a heavy sigh; Peggy wringed her hands and, suddenly burdened by the consequences of her actions, contemplated existence." Hank looks nothing like his father, Cotton: Cotton is not Hank's father. Cotton is Bobby after Bobby inadvertently steps into a time machine that Dale builds in his garage (I have already alluded to this TEN THOUSAND TIMES). Cotton travels back in time and tricks his "son", Hank, into raising Hank's "son", Bobby. From that very moment, Bill is filled with an everlasting sense of loss that he is unable to place. No longer ruining Bobby's life by raising him, he is crippled by depression and anxiety. Hank has a Chinese Brother: Chinese Hank has a cadmium addiction and also builds robots. It's possible that he doesn't even "truly" exist.
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Sep 2, 2014 00:40
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Who What Now posted:Hanks half-brother is Japanese you goddamn philistine. Then why did they travel to Tokyo?
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Sep 2, 2014 01:06
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Imagine KoTH with "Hunk Hell" as the head of household, his wife "Piggy Hell", and son "Booby Hell". Wouldn't that be wild? And grandpa "Cuttin' Hell", and cousin "Looseass Hell".
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Sep 2, 2014 18:38
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