First of all, this isn't the story I thought I was going to write. I'm too much of a perfectionist to start that story, so instead I wrote this (much shorter) story, which popped into my head today. It's a first draft, I already see a few problems with it, the guy only talks in the beginning and then shuts up, which is inconsistent, and just some pacing stuff, and maybe I'll work on it some more soon, but anyway tell me what you think.
Chris and the Jammer
"Y'know what he was like," said Chris. "He thought... he thought that the more you get shit on, the better you end up. That's what he thought." He kicked a rock, to emphasize his point.
"Like, I wasn't abused. My dad didn't beat me up. I never had fuckin' cancer. Does that make me weak? Does that make me worthless? You're not a better person just cause your childhood sucked," explained Chris. The Jammer nodded in assent.
"I was just as good as anybody else. But he fucking hated my guts, cause I was younger than him, and I was fucking smarter, and he was just a bitter old fuck. That's all it was," said Chris.
He looked at the pack, sitting patiently outside of the bubble. They couldn't smell him, so they weren't aggressive, but they knew that he was there. They had probably been drawn by the gunshots, though those had gone off days ago. There were at least a thousand of them now, scattered throughout the blood-red hills.
When Chris had rummaged through the various sacks, belts, and duffel bags left behind by the regiment, he had found hundreds of rounds of ammunition. Chris fired every last one into the horde, although now he wasn't sure why he'd bothered. The corpses of the skinless dogs were now lying among their former packmates, rotting beneath the scorching purple sun.
"Fucking asshole," he said, referring once again to the Colonel. The last of Chris's sustenance was a quarter-full flask of bourbon, the scent of which had caused him to vomit. He'd found it in the Colonel's jacket, which amused him to no end. If the same flask had been discovered in Chris's possession, he would have been court-martialed.
One of the dogs was irritatingly close to the bubble, staring rather intently in Chris's direction. Chris wound up slowly, then pitched the flask at the canine's face. The dog's brittle skull shattered like an eggshell, and it let out a piercing shriek as a ghastly white steam escaped from the crack in his scalp. Nearby dogs barked, sharp and hollow, then slowly fell silent. "Hmm," said the Jammer, amused.
Chris dropped down next to the Jammer. In his head, the last words the Colonel had said to him repeated for the millionth time. It was a week ago, the night they watched the rift close above them, the night they knew the shuttles wouldn't return.
As the bubble slowly contracted, men were physically forced outside toward the slavering mass. The remainder, a dozen or so men, crowded around the Jammer and starved.
The Colonel had proposed something, then. The men agreed, with one exception. When Chris said he didn't want to do it, the Colonel replied: "Suit yourself."
Within minutes, Chris was alone.
He hugged the Jammer, staring out into the sea of demons, far too tired to cry. It wasn't long before the dogs could get close enough to sniff his foot.
the sun is always up at the same fucking time and it's always shining brightly in all of our god damned faces.
i don't care, the sun. you fucking win, all right? shut the fuck up you stuck-up son of a cunt. you are literally the most pretentious celestial object i have ever fucking seen. eat my dick.
the moon is awesome because he's not a stuck-up fuckwad. first of all, even when he feels like shining brightly (which he only does some of the time and usually just because he's jealous, which is understandable) he lets the night be dark. the sun blues up the whole fucking sky, like what kind of faggot color is this
and like a quarter of the time the moon is like "fuck this" and is just dark himself because whatever, he can do what he wants. he's not all gonna fucking show off all the time like that jackass sun
oh yeah and the sun gays up the morning with his sunrise, like, just come up if you're coming, you don't need to be all fucking dramatic about it, holy shit. the moon doesn't do that
and sometimes the moon is out in the day when he feels like fucking with you, i like that, he's got a sense of humor that moon
in conclusion, the moon is a bro and the sun is a total asshole
It's hard to look at her. She's so cute. She's the sort of girl that you want to impress. Now, unfortunately, that's impossible. We both know what I'm really here for, and no matter how much she smiles at me, I know that she thinks I'm pathetic.
Even though I feel this shame running through me, I feel compelled to come here. I'm a man, and I have manly urges. The desire to be able to respect myself comes a distant second to the desire to scratch this hideous itch.
She leans forward, softly requesting a few dollar bills. I sheepishly comply. I am totally entranced, not just by her beauty and her air of innocence, but by the implicit suggestion that what I'm doing isn't repulsive. We both know the truth, but we pretend. It makes things easier.
She hands me my change, along with a bag full of cheeseburgers. Holy fuck they smell good. Pulling away, I automatically grab one and jam it down my pants. Ketchup sprays out all over my balls, and my diminutive cock twitches in ecstasy. After fucking the all-beef patty for fifteen seconds, I shoot semen all over my own face. Only then do I gather the pube-laden burger out of my boxers and begin the feast.
I'll be back tomorrow. God help me, I know I will.
The fact is, he is a ferocious underdog. He's a fat beardo (much like me) who plays weird music, where everybody else is your classic ballad-singing sexpot. The judges love him because he's original, but they can only save him once. Now he's got to save himself.
I like porn. I don't love porn; that sort of feeling is reserved for women and baseball players. That said, every so often I get a peculiar craving. It's not something I'm proud of, but it's out of my control. I'll be sitting on the computer and it will suddenly come over me:
"I need to see donkey cock."
Not just the cock itself, mind you; I need to see a woman riding a donkey, preferably while another donkey is riding her, and maybe another few people are scattered around punching themselves in the crotch... it doesn't matter too much. I just need to see a cat's cradle of hooves and tits and semen, slapping and spraying wildly across the monitor. And if it could all take place aboard the Starship Enterprise, so much the better.
So I'll head to Google and I'll type in "veritable cat's cradle of yadda yadda yadda" and I'll get a dozen different sites advertising the latest and greatest in ass-on-ass action. So I'll click one, and wouldn't you know it, they want my fucking credit card number.
Scheming sons of bitches. Donkey porn used to be free, you know. How dare they deprive me of such a basic need.
Now, no man is going to admit to knowing as much as I'm about to tell you, but the fact is that every one of us has been down this same road before. Many a Kleenex has met its fate at the end of a journey similar to the one I will now describe. Girls, don't look on your husband or boyfriend with disgust; this is just as much a part of him as his obsession with Foreigner. (They're fucking awesome, so just leave them alone.)
They offer a few subscription options over at "tumbleweed-of-donkey-cocks.com". Their basic options are, naturally, exorbitant; 1 month for $30, 3 months for $60, and so on. Nobody in their right mind is going to pay for this; after all, the urge to spank it to donkey porn is infrequent and fleeting. I don't need to look at this stuff for a whole month straight; I might start to like it.
However, they do offer another option, which every guy you know has clicked on: the one-day trial for a mere five dollars. It is, of course, a trick; after your "trial" is up, you'll automatically be signed up for a one-month subscription and your credit card will be charged accordingly. Realizing this, we hatch a plan. If we sign up for the trial, we can inundate ourselves with donkey-related pornography. We can drown ourselves in our perversion, not daring to look away lest a single moment of our 24 hour liberty pass to Burro Ball Boulevard be forgotten in the weeks to come. And for fuck's sake, we can't save any of it to the computer, because we know that one day our daughters will get on and discover our more-than-casual interest in equine biology, and God only knows what that would do to them.
And just before the 24-hour deadline, we will cancel our subscription to "mules-gone-bugfuck.com" and narrowly avoid being charged. This particular hurdle, however, is more treacherous than it first appears. They won't let you simply click on an "Unsubscribe" link, oh no. The process is far more shameful than that.
Now, you must realize, they do understand our dilemma. We don't want anybody to know what we've been looking at on the internet. When they charge your credit card, they don't bill you under "GRAMMA'S SLINGSHOT LABIA PARADISE," they bill you under something innocuous, like "QBill GSLP." That's if you're a loyal, paying customer. However, once you want to get out from under their thumbs, you're going to have to swallow your pride... because you're going to have to tell an actual human being exactly what you want.
In order to unsubscribe, you will have to call them on the telephone and say, to a live person, "I want to cancel my subscription to Mule Fisting Fiesta." They are counting on your burning shame to keep you from leaving.
Now, most of us don't really think about the fact that this is a person whose entire job is listening to people nervously cancel their porn subscriptions, but it doesn't matter. Someone out there knows your name and can associate it with at least one act of beastiality that you've spanked off to. Someone knows exactly how sick you are.
Once it's over, though, and you crawl back into bed, hands crusted with ejaculate, you can feel perfectly secure.