A thread where i can post my stories? - let me know if i fucked up again, sorry
- Iniciador del tema littlestclown
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🇵🇦 Nuestro primer dominio localizado está en español en kiwifarms.pa. Our first localized domain is on Spanish on kiwifarms.pa.
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How do you expect to improve as a writer if you don’t want constructive criticism? Don’t post stuff if you don’t want to hear people’s honest opinions (and dear lord if you want to become a full time writer who actually gets paid to write stories; even Stephen King gets harsh reviews on his brain children).oh i wasnt looking for a reviewsorry you didnt like it, hopefully someone does
You should have at least gotten a few people to Beta Read this for you. There’s more than enough Facebook groups willing to do just that.
littlestclown
kiwifarms.net
- Registrado
- 5 de Ene, 2019
already addressed this! sorry for the misunderstanding:
"nothing wrong with your critique friend! i appreciate it of course, but i have a brain tumor and i dont think im going to be able to get much better sadly. if im not your cup of tea i might never be im afraid, sorry if i offended you. Im just trying to share my stories before i die"
littlestclown
kiwifarms.net
- Registrado
- 5 de Ene, 2019
This ones a bit near and dear to my heart. Hope you all Enjoy.
JOSEPH JOHNSON
Joseph Johnson woke up with a brazen grimace painted on his face, at eleven o’ three in the morning. Huh? Joseph blinked. It’s morning. At the moment this thought dawned on Sir Joseph Johnson, the sun cast a ray which graced his left eye. He prolongedly winced for a while, then came back to. Then he looked down at his phone, which was ringing. It lay on his nightstand. Joseph hated his phone. He answered the phone.
“Hello?”
“This is Walmart. We wanted to notify you that we will not hire you at this location. Your past is appalling.”
“Huh? Why? What on earth is appalling about my past?”
...but Walmart had hung up the phone. Joseph winced, and held down his eyes to keep back the tears. What is with this bum luck? Joseph had long suspected that he had been cursed. Roll the dice. Born with a shark-looking face, but not being of the popular shark humanoid breed; born with a small penis; always having a low IQ; hated by girls; disrespected by everyone; insignificant. How can I fully accept insignificance? Twas the type of life which breeds the fantasy. Yes, Joseph Johnson had long stayed up at night, imagining himself as a billionaire with many wives, sometimes as a war hero, sometimes as a scientist. He never fully believed it was over for him and his story, until now. This is the pattern of the loser. A loser that’s not cool enough to drown himself in booze. Joseph Johnson often wishes he could drink, but he’s scared of getting high. He always winds up believing that Jesus Christ will come to him when he gets too high.
Joseph, feeling depressed, decided to treat himself. What do you think? IHOP. He’d always felt weird sitting by himself in a high-end restaurant. Just him and a stack of pancakes, giving each other an ultimatum. Joseph Johnson said a prayer. Then he commenced attack. Grace. Speed. And strangely… power. No need for a napkin: he was practiced. Polish the knife and fork. I’m still hungry. Hmmm. Joseph Johnson raised his hand.
“More pancakes, please.” The ma’am smiled, and laughed.
“Oh boy!” The waitress raised her hand to her mouth. Joseph Johnson was poised with knife and fork in each hand, ready as hell to eat. She saw this and decided not to joke around anymore. He remained steadfast.
Fast-forward to operation pancake. This time Joseph put a few more condiments on; in full his recipe consisted of: blackberry jam, maple syrup, butter, peanut butter, and m&n’s (he brought them inside). Onlookers began to become more interested in the scene. In a, dare I say, intoxicated bout of pancake eating, Joseph Johnson started getting grime on his face for the first time in a long time. This is strange indeed, considering Joseph’s grace and finesse with any meal. He was a veritable whale.
The waitress knew something was up. She tapped Joseph on the shoulder. His eyes rolled around as he aimed his head up towards her’s. She had a look of consternation in her eyes, yet the rest of her face remained soft and puckered. Joseph Johnson felt a hard on coming on.
“Joseph! Your face is covered in poop and food!”
Joseph Johnson, chagrined, softly exclaimed, “Poop?!”
“What, Joseph?” Joseph shook his head rapidly, then forgot about this whole scene.
Joseph grabbed his face. Slippery? He realised that his face was covered in jam and syrup. Gross! I talked to a girl like this! Joseph got out of his seat. He verbally uttered, “Awww!” and ran out of IHOP, embarrassed. Where to? Walmart.
Joseph felt relaxed in Walmart. He had a memory of playing video games in this very store. But this were different then. That was then. This is now. He entered on the left side of the building, if you face the building head on. So the first thing he saw was a well-organized mountain of soda pop. They drew a pumpkin using twelve packs of Dr. Ghost Pepper. You know, alternating between diet and regular packs. As in, one’s colored silver and the other black. I think I’ll get a pack. Or three. After the soda escapade, Joseph sternly eyed the shrimp. When they occurred to him, he spun around one-eighty and gazed upon them. It took all the strength of common sense to keep him from running full speed onward.
Joseph was holding a bag of ultra jumbo shrimp, staring into space. He shook his head. He put the bag in the cart and wheeled it onward to the hot dogs and steaks. At this point the excitement had him geeking, and he began to wheel the cart around with great speed. One. Two. Three. Items in the cart. He experienced single-mindedness.
He was reaching for the milk as his phone rang again. He winced in expectation.
“Yes?”
“Joseph Johnson?”
“It is I.”
“Yes, so we can’t hire you because of your past. Our interview process includes acquaintance interviews, as per Trvmp Doctrine 949. So we know more about you than you might expect.” Joseph Johnson sank to the floor, trying to hold back the Congo River of tears. But nary a held back tear, he was a fit-receptacle for a spectacle. The fat boy cries, sunk into himself, face wet, face bitch, people’s pity. Not many people acted like they respected him, but they did try to comfort him. This frustrates a bitch. But most butchers begin as bitches. He swatted away the helping hands, as per the ego. Sin? Only in the opinions of people. Joseph Johnson was a moral nihilist.
But, Joe was also a trooper, so he ignored the comforting ullulations and wheeled away his grocery cart as if nothing had happened. People stared at him with surprise. Some wondered if he was insane in the membrane, you know, down to the core. Only God knows. Oops, I mean, only Element Balls do.
So, what is Joseph Johnson’s relation to the Element Balls, you ask? I’m not sure. Or maybe I am. Either way, I like to keep you, our dear readers, in suspense.
All he needed was Jack Link’s Matador before he could leave Walmart. When he proceeded to check-out, he felt the cashier gave him no respect. A young man, with a punk-ass attitude, checked him out. Bitch. If only you’ve seen the things I’ve seen. Wait ‘til you’re thirty, like me. Joseph Johnson’s phone began to ring. He winced in pain, and an onlooker could tell that he indeed had winced. He made a face at the moment that implied that he may have farted. The cashier looked disgusted and asked, “Aren’t you gonna answer that?!”
“That’d be improper grocery store etiquette.”
“No it wouldn’t. Just answer your phone, jackass!” The young man made a punk face.
Joseph Johnson shoegazed in cool contemplation. He was considering answer. Yea, sure.
“Hello?”
“Joseph Johnson.”
“It is I.” The young cashier was eyeing Joseph Johnson with cool consternation at this point.
“We can’t take you on at this job.” Joseph Johnson closed the flip phone, and broke down in tears. He sank to the ground and rehearsed the fetal position. The cashier didn’t even laugh, he held his serious, honest opinion of Joseph. This seriousness made Joseph feel unwelcome, so he cried and farted even harder. Everyone looked at the situation logistically, and just wanted Joe’s ass out of the way. Get out of the way! We’ve all had hard days. Quit being so gay! Joseph left his groceries behind and ran out. He sniffled as he started his car. A mob was still following him, so he thought. They weren’t. That was wish fulfillment. If he was at least notorious, he’d be popular. And that was precisely what he most certainly was not. Where to now? Joseph’s phone rang again. Maybe this will help me decide where to go, Joseph sardonically thought - no, believed.
“Go home, Joseph.” A raspy voice voiced.
“Why?” The other line hung up. Joseph pulled out of his parking spot. I’ll go home then, fuck it. I need guidance.
When he pulled into the driveway, he saw the white Ford 350 van. This creeped Joseph out. I’ll just proceed to the door and pretend it’s not there. He did so. But when he passed the van, a voice sounded.
“Hey, you!” It was the raspy voice. Joseph turned around. It was a clown in white makeup (whiteface clown).
“What do you want from me?”
“Get in and I’ll show you.” Joseph Johnson did so. Joseph Johnson got raped. The clown’s grand finale was saying, “I just showed you what I wanted!” when Joseph began to sob. Joseph Johnson woke up, screaming.
His phone was ringing. He pulled the sheets out from under him. They smelled bad. He answered the phone.
“Hello, Joseph Johnson.”
“Hello, it’s Joseph.”
“We know. We can’t hire you on at Wendy's. We have principles here.”
Joseph Johnson hung up the phone out of spite. We have principles here, Joseph thought to himself in a gay baby’s voice. But his bulwark attitude was an artifice covering the weakness he knew too well. He was hurt, on the inside and possibly even the outside. That is usually the nature of illness; it begins on the inside and spreads throughout, extending to the outside. Many ancient traditions regarded all disease as a symptom of the soul. I find this view simplistic and in the end, cruel. I know a man like Joseph Johnson tries his best. It’s no fault of his own that he does not succeed. He’s not here to learn his lesson or any bullshit like that; at least the Joseph I know ain’t.
Well… what do I do today? Any direction that I could muster up in my imagination, I’m unwanted there. Like shipwreck trash. A captain sees that, he just drives the boat over it. Too ugly to include in a picture of the sea, but at the same time, too insignificant to sink a ship. I’m like a bag of chips at sea. No note in the bottle, no octopus… chips. A bag of chips. Refuse of another, superior man’s hedonistic appetites.
So he drove aimlessly for a while. Why not? What’s there at home? A television, a laptop. Gross refrigerator with mustard stains. I’m sick of it all! Nothing works out for Joseph Johnson. The glass? It’s completely empty. His waitress forgot the refill. He got one taste, of filled up cup, which he sucked down within seconds of the waitress bringing it to him. That was when Joe was born, brimming with ideas, ambitions (he wanted desperately to be a banker), lust, compassion, and religion. Yes, ol’ Joe always had religious thoughts. He considered religious philosophy to be his sole God-given talent in this life.
He’d been taken fishing once in his life; he’d never been hunting. He’d been on a single roller-coaster ride, at Six Flags, where he puked. He’d ding dong ditched his close-friend and neighbor, who didn't even mind. It was barely even a joke. Point is, Joseph never really had any great adventures to brag about. It was as if Ronald McDonald took a big old shit on him (a turning of the tables). The phone began to ring. Well, I’m driving, but I guess I’ll take the risk.
“Hello, Joseph Johnson.” It was a strangely familiar, and horrifying, raspy voice.
“Hello?”
“You think you’re a clown?”
“Wha- what!?”
“Nevermind.”
“Oh Okay?”
“Don’t be naive. You’re a clown.”
Joseph Johnson promptly hung up, put his head in his hands, and began yelling, “MAKE IT ALL STOP!” Naive fool. He hasn’t pieced the puzzle together. There’s a reason for this, shall we say, deja-vu? He must solve this problem. Someone’s toying with me! Good first step, Joseph! The lightbulbs got a smidgen of current! It’s gotta be this clown guy! Who the hell is he. Call him back. His fingers reached for the phone, yet… stopped in their tracks. I can’t. Bitch! But… shouldn’t I get it over with?! He grabbed the phone and held it up to his sight. No… Remember the motto: bold actions require bold reasons. I’m not being tracked down by anybody. Everything’s cool. I’ve just been having nightmares lately.
A big Checkers sign appeared before Joseph’s line of sight. Joseph retracted his lips and further proved Pavlov’s point. He thinks to himself, should I?! He’s basically choking the steering wheel at this point. In a last minute decision, he burns his tires pulling into Checkers. Immediately, he felt feelings of both regret and satisfaction. A dirty feeling, not dissimilar to cumming inside of a midget.
Then he saw it. That painful insult. His forehead was throbbing. He felt the fat on his waistline whimpering, as if a stultifying object of lust and gluttony suddenly disappeared. A giant sign, which said, “Not hiring Joseph Johnson.” He didn’t have tears left at this point, he used them all up in his nightmares. Perhaps he had them to thank for conditioning him to this sort of denial of his identity. He was a repugnant snail, that much was clear to him now. He wouldn’t fight this battle. No… he was just… tired… pulled down by gravity. He knew, for the first time, the essence of gravity, and its bearings not only in physical, yet also in human, dimensions. The nineteen ninety-eight Buick turned a one-eighty, in a solemn and depressed manner. You don’t want me?! Well, I’m gone! He looked once more at that insult, but it was gone! Joseph stopped the car and began rubbing his forehead and eyes. I’m just tired… so tired…
Well, now that I know I know that I hallucinated the sign, I guess I’m safe in ordering a meal. Phew. It’s getting to my head. Just be optimistic. If you order a drink at Checkers, that fucker ain’t only half full, it’s completely full! And with that, he was in the drive-thru.
“One second, please.” He was taking longer than that. He was trying to find a Big Buford coupon on his flip phone.
“Hello? You still there?” *Honk*
“Yes! Fine! One Big Buford, please!” He floored it, and stopped right at the first window. He was annoyed by this town. Shitty Ohio town. He ate the meal in the parking lot. But, his parking spot was directly in front of a bunch of other parked cars… with people in them. He could see them. Making fun. Staring. Pointing fingers. Laughing. Being evil. He’d seen the face of the devil. Now he was just… tired. He learned how to eat a meal with fingers in his face in middle school. He was a real walrus back then… still is. He got out of his car to throw away the bag of half-eaten fast food. He saw a hoodie thug rushing up to him with a baseball bat. NO!
Joseph Johnson woke up. Things were looking green, but as he rose to full consciousness, and actually looked into the detail of his surroundings, the green hue wore off, but still somewhat resided in the background of his mind. I feel… sickly. Something in the air was fishy. It felt to Joseph to be a perfect day for a zombie apocalypse. This idea somewhat excited him. It could be conjectured that his willingness for an apocalyptic scenario is fueled by his secret desire to be a hero, but it is frankly doubtful that he’d survive such an ordeal. But, who knows? Not I. What would Joseph Johnson do in a zombie outbreak? Well, how about a look into his own personal zombie outbreak scenario journal?
In case of a zombie outbreak.
Stock up on a can of beans. Stay in the house. Bar the doors and windows. Leave one window on the second floor unbarred.
In case of a one-on-one zombie fight.
Make sure to damage it’s brain.
This is the whole of his so-called zombie journal. It seems to me unlikely that he’d survive.
I’ll just stay in bed today. Remain true. This is what I want for myself. I’ll see what’s on TV.
Things on television were strange, scary.
JOSEPH JOHNSON
Joseph Johnson woke up with a brazen grimace painted on his face, at eleven o’ three in the morning. Huh? Joseph blinked. It’s morning. At the moment this thought dawned on Sir Joseph Johnson, the sun cast a ray which graced his left eye. He prolongedly winced for a while, then came back to. Then he looked down at his phone, which was ringing. It lay on his nightstand. Joseph hated his phone. He answered the phone.
“Hello?”
“This is Walmart. We wanted to notify you that we will not hire you at this location. Your past is appalling.”
“Huh? Why? What on earth is appalling about my past?”
...but Walmart had hung up the phone. Joseph winced, and held down his eyes to keep back the tears. What is with this bum luck? Joseph had long suspected that he had been cursed. Roll the dice. Born with a shark-looking face, but not being of the popular shark humanoid breed; born with a small penis; always having a low IQ; hated by girls; disrespected by everyone; insignificant. How can I fully accept insignificance? Twas the type of life which breeds the fantasy. Yes, Joseph Johnson had long stayed up at night, imagining himself as a billionaire with many wives, sometimes as a war hero, sometimes as a scientist. He never fully believed it was over for him and his story, until now. This is the pattern of the loser. A loser that’s not cool enough to drown himself in booze. Joseph Johnson often wishes he could drink, but he’s scared of getting high. He always winds up believing that Jesus Christ will come to him when he gets too high.
Joseph, feeling depressed, decided to treat himself. What do you think? IHOP. He’d always felt weird sitting by himself in a high-end restaurant. Just him and a stack of pancakes, giving each other an ultimatum. Joseph Johnson said a prayer. Then he commenced attack. Grace. Speed. And strangely… power. No need for a napkin: he was practiced. Polish the knife and fork. I’m still hungry. Hmmm. Joseph Johnson raised his hand.
“More pancakes, please.” The ma’am smiled, and laughed.
“Oh boy!” The waitress raised her hand to her mouth. Joseph Johnson was poised with knife and fork in each hand, ready as hell to eat. She saw this and decided not to joke around anymore. He remained steadfast.
Fast-forward to operation pancake. This time Joseph put a few more condiments on; in full his recipe consisted of: blackberry jam, maple syrup, butter, peanut butter, and m&n’s (he brought them inside). Onlookers began to become more interested in the scene. In a, dare I say, intoxicated bout of pancake eating, Joseph Johnson started getting grime on his face for the first time in a long time. This is strange indeed, considering Joseph’s grace and finesse with any meal. He was a veritable whale.
The waitress knew something was up. She tapped Joseph on the shoulder. His eyes rolled around as he aimed his head up towards her’s. She had a look of consternation in her eyes, yet the rest of her face remained soft and puckered. Joseph Johnson felt a hard on coming on.
“Joseph! Your face is covered in poop and food!”
Joseph Johnson, chagrined, softly exclaimed, “Poop?!”
“What, Joseph?” Joseph shook his head rapidly, then forgot about this whole scene.
Joseph grabbed his face. Slippery? He realised that his face was covered in jam and syrup. Gross! I talked to a girl like this! Joseph got out of his seat. He verbally uttered, “Awww!” and ran out of IHOP, embarrassed. Where to? Walmart.
Joseph felt relaxed in Walmart. He had a memory of playing video games in this very store. But this were different then. That was then. This is now. He entered on the left side of the building, if you face the building head on. So the first thing he saw was a well-organized mountain of soda pop. They drew a pumpkin using twelve packs of Dr. Ghost Pepper. You know, alternating between diet and regular packs. As in, one’s colored silver and the other black. I think I’ll get a pack. Or three. After the soda escapade, Joseph sternly eyed the shrimp. When they occurred to him, he spun around one-eighty and gazed upon them. It took all the strength of common sense to keep him from running full speed onward.
Joseph was holding a bag of ultra jumbo shrimp, staring into space. He shook his head. He put the bag in the cart and wheeled it onward to the hot dogs and steaks. At this point the excitement had him geeking, and he began to wheel the cart around with great speed. One. Two. Three. Items in the cart. He experienced single-mindedness.
He was reaching for the milk as his phone rang again. He winced in expectation.
“Yes?”
“Joseph Johnson?”
“It is I.”
“Yes, so we can’t hire you because of your past. Our interview process includes acquaintance interviews, as per Trvmp Doctrine 949. So we know more about you than you might expect.” Joseph Johnson sank to the floor, trying to hold back the Congo River of tears. But nary a held back tear, he was a fit-receptacle for a spectacle. The fat boy cries, sunk into himself, face wet, face bitch, people’s pity. Not many people acted like they respected him, but they did try to comfort him. This frustrates a bitch. But most butchers begin as bitches. He swatted away the helping hands, as per the ego. Sin? Only in the opinions of people. Joseph Johnson was a moral nihilist.
But, Joe was also a trooper, so he ignored the comforting ullulations and wheeled away his grocery cart as if nothing had happened. People stared at him with surprise. Some wondered if he was insane in the membrane, you know, down to the core. Only God knows. Oops, I mean, only Element Balls do.
So, what is Joseph Johnson’s relation to the Element Balls, you ask? I’m not sure. Or maybe I am. Either way, I like to keep you, our dear readers, in suspense.
All he needed was Jack Link’s Matador before he could leave Walmart. When he proceeded to check-out, he felt the cashier gave him no respect. A young man, with a punk-ass attitude, checked him out. Bitch. If only you’ve seen the things I’ve seen. Wait ‘til you’re thirty, like me. Joseph Johnson’s phone began to ring. He winced in pain, and an onlooker could tell that he indeed had winced. He made a face at the moment that implied that he may have farted. The cashier looked disgusted and asked, “Aren’t you gonna answer that?!”
“That’d be improper grocery store etiquette.”
“No it wouldn’t. Just answer your phone, jackass!” The young man made a punk face.
Joseph Johnson shoegazed in cool contemplation. He was considering answer. Yea, sure.
“Hello?”
“Joseph Johnson.”
“It is I.” The young cashier was eyeing Joseph Johnson with cool consternation at this point.
“We can’t take you on at this job.” Joseph Johnson closed the flip phone, and broke down in tears. He sank to the ground and rehearsed the fetal position. The cashier didn’t even laugh, he held his serious, honest opinion of Joseph. This seriousness made Joseph feel unwelcome, so he cried and farted even harder. Everyone looked at the situation logistically, and just wanted Joe’s ass out of the way. Get out of the way! We’ve all had hard days. Quit being so gay! Joseph left his groceries behind and ran out. He sniffled as he started his car. A mob was still following him, so he thought. They weren’t. That was wish fulfillment. If he was at least notorious, he’d be popular. And that was precisely what he most certainly was not. Where to now? Joseph’s phone rang again. Maybe this will help me decide where to go, Joseph sardonically thought - no, believed.
“Go home, Joseph.” A raspy voice voiced.
“Why?” The other line hung up. Joseph pulled out of his parking spot. I’ll go home then, fuck it. I need guidance.
When he pulled into the driveway, he saw the white Ford 350 van. This creeped Joseph out. I’ll just proceed to the door and pretend it’s not there. He did so. But when he passed the van, a voice sounded.
“Hey, you!” It was the raspy voice. Joseph turned around. It was a clown in white makeup (whiteface clown).
“What do you want from me?”
“Get in and I’ll show you.” Joseph Johnson did so. Joseph Johnson got raped. The clown’s grand finale was saying, “I just showed you what I wanted!” when Joseph began to sob. Joseph Johnson woke up, screaming.
His phone was ringing. He pulled the sheets out from under him. They smelled bad. He answered the phone.
“Hello, Joseph Johnson.”
“Hello, it’s Joseph.”
“We know. We can’t hire you on at Wendy's. We have principles here.”
Joseph Johnson hung up the phone out of spite. We have principles here, Joseph thought to himself in a gay baby’s voice. But his bulwark attitude was an artifice covering the weakness he knew too well. He was hurt, on the inside and possibly even the outside. That is usually the nature of illness; it begins on the inside and spreads throughout, extending to the outside. Many ancient traditions regarded all disease as a symptom of the soul. I find this view simplistic and in the end, cruel. I know a man like Joseph Johnson tries his best. It’s no fault of his own that he does not succeed. He’s not here to learn his lesson or any bullshit like that; at least the Joseph I know ain’t.
Well… what do I do today? Any direction that I could muster up in my imagination, I’m unwanted there. Like shipwreck trash. A captain sees that, he just drives the boat over it. Too ugly to include in a picture of the sea, but at the same time, too insignificant to sink a ship. I’m like a bag of chips at sea. No note in the bottle, no octopus… chips. A bag of chips. Refuse of another, superior man’s hedonistic appetites.
So he drove aimlessly for a while. Why not? What’s there at home? A television, a laptop. Gross refrigerator with mustard stains. I’m sick of it all! Nothing works out for Joseph Johnson. The glass? It’s completely empty. His waitress forgot the refill. He got one taste, of filled up cup, which he sucked down within seconds of the waitress bringing it to him. That was when Joe was born, brimming with ideas, ambitions (he wanted desperately to be a banker), lust, compassion, and religion. Yes, ol’ Joe always had religious thoughts. He considered religious philosophy to be his sole God-given talent in this life.
He’d been taken fishing once in his life; he’d never been hunting. He’d been on a single roller-coaster ride, at Six Flags, where he puked. He’d ding dong ditched his close-friend and neighbor, who didn't even mind. It was barely even a joke. Point is, Joseph never really had any great adventures to brag about. It was as if Ronald McDonald took a big old shit on him (a turning of the tables). The phone began to ring. Well, I’m driving, but I guess I’ll take the risk.
“Hello, Joseph Johnson.” It was a strangely familiar, and horrifying, raspy voice.
“Hello?”
“You think you’re a clown?”
“Wha- what!?”
“Nevermind.”
“Oh Okay?”
“Don’t be naive. You’re a clown.”
Joseph Johnson promptly hung up, put his head in his hands, and began yelling, “MAKE IT ALL STOP!” Naive fool. He hasn’t pieced the puzzle together. There’s a reason for this, shall we say, deja-vu? He must solve this problem. Someone’s toying with me! Good first step, Joseph! The lightbulbs got a smidgen of current! It’s gotta be this clown guy! Who the hell is he. Call him back. His fingers reached for the phone, yet… stopped in their tracks. I can’t. Bitch! But… shouldn’t I get it over with?! He grabbed the phone and held it up to his sight. No… Remember the motto: bold actions require bold reasons. I’m not being tracked down by anybody. Everything’s cool. I’ve just been having nightmares lately.
A big Checkers sign appeared before Joseph’s line of sight. Joseph retracted his lips and further proved Pavlov’s point. He thinks to himself, should I?! He’s basically choking the steering wheel at this point. In a last minute decision, he burns his tires pulling into Checkers. Immediately, he felt feelings of both regret and satisfaction. A dirty feeling, not dissimilar to cumming inside of a midget.
Then he saw it. That painful insult. His forehead was throbbing. He felt the fat on his waistline whimpering, as if a stultifying object of lust and gluttony suddenly disappeared. A giant sign, which said, “Not hiring Joseph Johnson.” He didn’t have tears left at this point, he used them all up in his nightmares. Perhaps he had them to thank for conditioning him to this sort of denial of his identity. He was a repugnant snail, that much was clear to him now. He wouldn’t fight this battle. No… he was just… tired… pulled down by gravity. He knew, for the first time, the essence of gravity, and its bearings not only in physical, yet also in human, dimensions. The nineteen ninety-eight Buick turned a one-eighty, in a solemn and depressed manner. You don’t want me?! Well, I’m gone! He looked once more at that insult, but it was gone! Joseph stopped the car and began rubbing his forehead and eyes. I’m just tired… so tired…
Well, now that I know I know that I hallucinated the sign, I guess I’m safe in ordering a meal. Phew. It’s getting to my head. Just be optimistic. If you order a drink at Checkers, that fucker ain’t only half full, it’s completely full! And with that, he was in the drive-thru.
“One second, please.” He was taking longer than that. He was trying to find a Big Buford coupon on his flip phone.
“Hello? You still there?” *Honk*
“Yes! Fine! One Big Buford, please!” He floored it, and stopped right at the first window. He was annoyed by this town. Shitty Ohio town. He ate the meal in the parking lot. But, his parking spot was directly in front of a bunch of other parked cars… with people in them. He could see them. Making fun. Staring. Pointing fingers. Laughing. Being evil. He’d seen the face of the devil. Now he was just… tired. He learned how to eat a meal with fingers in his face in middle school. He was a real walrus back then… still is. He got out of his car to throw away the bag of half-eaten fast food. He saw a hoodie thug rushing up to him with a baseball bat. NO!
Joseph Johnson woke up. Things were looking green, but as he rose to full consciousness, and actually looked into the detail of his surroundings, the green hue wore off, but still somewhat resided in the background of his mind. I feel… sickly. Something in the air was fishy. It felt to Joseph to be a perfect day for a zombie apocalypse. This idea somewhat excited him. It could be conjectured that his willingness for an apocalyptic scenario is fueled by his secret desire to be a hero, but it is frankly doubtful that he’d survive such an ordeal. But, who knows? Not I. What would Joseph Johnson do in a zombie outbreak? Well, how about a look into his own personal zombie outbreak scenario journal?
In case of a zombie outbreak.
Stock up on a can of beans. Stay in the house. Bar the doors and windows. Leave one window on the second floor unbarred.
In case of a one-on-one zombie fight.
Make sure to damage it’s brain.
This is the whole of his so-called zombie journal. It seems to me unlikely that he’d survive.
I’ll just stay in bed today. Remain true. This is what I want for myself. I’ll see what’s on TV.
Things on television were strange, scary.
littlestclown
kiwifarms.net
- Registrado
- 5 de Ene, 2019
Another one, im feeling generous
McDonald’s Incident
“So you people don’t even turn on the fucking machine anymore, right? Every time I’m out here it’s same fat shemale telling me it’s sorry for no fucking McFlurry.”
It was payday. Carpet mill life was rough and tumbling for the young Vladimir Beans. Between the daily dairy treats from McDonald’s and the three cans of dip he went through during a shift at Garnet, he had earned himself a nice pair of false teeth due to inoperable cavities, but he didn’t regret a minute of his life. Recently turned on to Buddhism by his shift lead, Vladimir lived in the present. A refugee from the Ukrainian
Civil War, Beans never knew the word his people used to express the distinctly Western notion of “regret.” The emotion simply wasn’t in the language whatsoever.
But there was a good bit in Beans’ speech patterns retained from the Old Country, and not all of it was pretty. This poor McDonald’s employee was being verbally eviscerated as a crowd of starved poked fun, texted, and guffawed. This fat he-she was tearing up as Beans delivered the goods yet again. He had recently become infamous at Garnet for managing to make the new kid cry more than once, and that was before beating his fucking ass on the premises. Rocky looked away - he knew he was hiring a fucking dork, and such dweebs made excellent sport for the battle-hardened Vladimir. Keep them coming. And can we get more McDonald’s assholes like this creep? This is fun.
Vladimir recently learned a new word while at the roller with Jerry. Vladimir, when prompted as to whether or not he’d prefer to drink duck cum or let a frog live in his ballsack, merely recounted a delightful story from the Old Country. Not too important a yarn, but a rollicker at bars and suppertime, many old world diners as well. Some aspects of American etiquette still eluded young Vladimir.
“Duck and frog, you say? Sometimes all we had to eat. I watched them die with pleasure.”
Jerry laughed. “You’re fucking psycho! Did you ever fuck one of their bodies?”
Usually a hit joke, this classic line of Jerry’s fell flat as one of Supervisor’s freshest seams. Vladimir had enough Ukrainian in him to not sense the ridiculousness of Jerry’s foolish line of questioning.
“Yes,” he answered with a straight face.
“Did you hear that? Tony, he said he fucked dead animals in fucking Sweden!” Jerry was enthralled. Tony simply danced in response - it was how the soulful seamer laughed. He simply grooved. Vladimir was of a harsher, denser consistency.
“Sometimes it was all we had in Ukraine. Our neighbors who moved here - the Hooks. Friends of ours. They will tell you.”
“This motherfucker up here talking about Captain Hook and shit!” Tony grooved onward, forgetting this moment in favor of the next.
Jerry was wearing his Modern Warfare 2 backpack to work that day. He packed a hardy lunch - Rap Snacks he’d bartered for cigarettes from Tony. If Tony smoked him in a match after that night’s shift, Jerry owed him a bag.
“I like the match where you kill… what do Americans call them? Civilians.”
Conversation came to a halt as Jerry and company guffawed again. Vladimir enjoyed the popularity - he liked being a spectacle.
“Damn, you’re fucking psycho!” There was that word again.
“Psycho, you say? I don’t understand.” Vladimir’s genuine earnest nature and perplexed, childlike demeanor was again accepted by the crowd as high stand-up comedy but Beans had no issue with this. He’d gobbled countless xanax the prior break in a competition with the Puerto Rican outlaw, Wendel, known as the Carpet Commando, for his warlike workman techniques. It was a brave showing, and the Slavic kicker’s inhibitions were reduced to nothing. He was social dynamite - he could have whipped his cock out in front of his coworkers, masturbated upon them, and they’d accept it for its Slavic smoothness and authenticity. This was a taste of the east.
Jerry prodded forth with a snicker but was cut off by Tony’s saxophone voice.
“Means your ass is cold and fucking crazy!” The crowd affirmed this.
Vladimir grinned.
Back to the drive-thru. Vladimir was feeling that same social buzz from before - he could tell the army of Varnell tweekers and miscreants were awaiting his next zinger as he shamelessly turned the breasted, nasal, dorky McDonald’s ameba into dogshit in front of everybody.
“I don’t believe you when you say machine is broken, how your titties get so big then? You look like you live off mcflurry!”
Vladimir could sense the flashes of smartphones hitting him. Another American phrase sprung to him, and he felt like he had an erection fueled by methamphetamine. Such highs were previously thought unattainable by the tough Ukrainian lad, but he’d never experienced a payday McDonald’s drive-thru smackdown with a packed audience. Tears streamed down the employee’s face and his speech was rendered incomprehensible such was the amount of snot and fucked up gargling noises. He needed a diaper change, and fueled by the shift lead’s passion for oneness and spontaneity, young Vladimir was inspired as if by Siddhartha himself (“Who?” Vladimir might add) to give the McDonald’s worker the diaper change he desperately needed.
If Beans had not been so possessed by evil and narcissistic bliss in this moment, he might have noticed the turn of the crowd’s favor as this drive-thru smackdown crossed the line from a Socratic display of wit and wordplay into a full-on literal assault and humiliation. He grabbed the McDonald’s blob and spat a gob of minty wintergreen in the young bitch’s face. The worker hyperventilated and cried, swallowing bits of Beans’ DNA with the snot he was already recycling through his bitchy looking mouth. Vladimir had such strength from carpets and coal mines he shoved backwards and launched the fat dork into the supposed broken machine. If it wasn’t broken before, it goddamn was then.
“The Americans will love my roasting of this gay chicken,” thought Vladimir. He turned up the radio and hightailed it out of the parking lot in style. He forgot about the incident immediately, such was his nature. True spontaneity - not his fault some dipshit didn’t have his own restaurant’s fucking food. Vladimir could not see why Americans simply accepted that this “man” had the gall to assume himself the role of a street merchant when he was telling every paying customer that his restaurant was not serving the foods listed on the menu. Food store, no food? This was another difference in humor and social norms between Varnell and the Old Country. If not taken as a poor joke, McDonald’s not serving its own menu at night time was met first by Vladimir with the same deadpan coldness Jerry displayed at the roller when inquiring about animal sex and fucking dead babies. If not immediately apologized for and excused as a piss poor display of mercantile, Vladimir’s second reaction was to raise immortal hell and engage in a public shaming. Fuck him. Vladimir drove to Cook Out and enjoyed thick shakes without feminine whines accompanying.
After a one day weekend of senseless drinking, Vladimir returned to work with a hangover he was desperate to sweat out. Roach and Supervisor had explained the deal. Sixteen hour shift. No gay crap - it was proving time in the killing fields. Kick or be kicked.
Numbers were up so Vladimir decided he would show the Americans some of the generosity they so lacked. Beans was a multiculturalist in the purest sense - he wanted to share his finest values and bond with the world. Roach’s Buddhist teachings enhanced this desire. Vladimir Beans decided to buy McDonald’s for his coworkers as a surprise for their gallantry and determination. It was going to be a great break. Big Macs for all.
Vladimir returned with more burgers than he could count. If the Americans liked burgers, it was burgers they received. Kill them with kindness was not a phrase in the coal mines of Ukraine, but Beans began to understand it. Except kindness was weak - he saw his carpet brethren as true brothers to be honored. He began chanting in his head, “Big mac! 1, 2, 3! Carpet! 4, 5, 6!” It was like an old folk song, but the words came to him like honey. Soul was flowing. Vladimir was proud to be alive.
There was one small problem, however. As Vladimir handed out burgers, he was met with a question. This was not the usual Jerry question. The new kid, Dillon, a bizarre mix of dork and redneck, chewed along and smirked as he began wasting Vladimir’s time. It was obvious to all that the boy had no spine or cock to speak of, and merely wished to be liked by this gang of kickers and seamers. Dillon asked Vladimir if he wanted a popsicle. The voice he used was not his normal hillbilly retard voice.
Vladimir remained stonefaced and then upturned an eyebrow with the strength and severity typically reserved for intense deadlifts or the taking of lives during wartime. “Come again, child?” “Child,” of course, was Beans’ nickname for the dorky carpet apprentice ever since beating his ass. It was a hit with coworkers.
Dillon’s resolve was unchanged. He needed to be accepted. His entire brain was a movie frozen on one scene - a dictionary of two simple words, one pathetic phrase: LIKE ME. LIKE ME. LIKE ME. It played endlessly in his head. Dillon clinged to the foolish notion that he could use his charm to win over those at Garnet. What he had not grasped yet was that even his mother did not find him charming. He bored dead people. He told jokes that would embarrass squirrels. A phrase from Ukraine summed up the gopher-toothed dipshit boy: some grenades don’t go off! His brain was a weak, retarded grenade. Every word he spoke was met as if it was a fart.
“You want a popsicle, Vlad?” Dillon grinned. He “knew” he was winning Vladimir’s favor...much like those of the past knew the earth was flat. Vladimir entertained himself with that thought, and fantasized of flattening Dillon’s face with brute force.
Another wrong prediction by the dipping gopher fuckstick, he smiled like his hero, Sy from Duck Dynasty, and mistook Vladimir’s smirks of pity for genuine amusement and good nature. He rattled on.
“You want to hear the story of little Johnny?”
“What relevance does this tale have? Why would I want to hear story of Johnny - his seams are strong. I do not want gossip,” Vladimir said.
Dillon continued like the world’s shittiest, stupidest record. He was about to turn up the volume. He assumed a caricatured southern dialect for this queef tale of retardation, another social faux pas by this evolutionary reject. There were real southerners afoot, and good people like Tyler and Allen found nothing in Dillon’s remarks except disrespect, like the boy had adorned blackface and began extoling the virtues of fried chicken and watermelon in front of Tony’s own preacher. Dillon ignored the groans and told his tale, a tale that some in the audience had already heard. This was maybe the least popular story in history.
“One day little Johnny was outside playing with his BB gun, as we southerners tend to do. Johnny smelled the enticing aroma of his momma’s blueberry pie. Well, some of yall already know little Johnny was also quite the prankster. He put two and two together and little Johnny put BBs in his momma’s pie. His family ate the pie without a second wager, ‘cuz the whole town knew how good little Johnny’s momma’s pies was.”
By this point in the story, even the Supervisor was staring incredulously. Work had reached a standstill. Carpet no longer existed, as the entire building stared at this slackjawed dumbass recounting his pathetic story yet again.
“Well, sure as a cucumber in spring, we southerners tend to get ourselves the shits and pisses after we eat, and little Johnny’s family one-by-one was taking themselves some stinky shits. First, his daddy says, ‘I’m shitting BBs!’ The rest of the clan hoped this was simply an isolated incident, but little Johnny knew what was to come! His poor sister was next - she had her first period that day and screamed from the outhouse, ‘I’m bleeding BBs from my pussy! Momma, daddy, come look at my blood!’ Surely a horrible sight.”
Tony gagged a bit. Kevin’s eyes were straightened, such was the intense focus. Even Roach was acting like he’d just been prison raped again. Speechless. Dillon continued.
“Well, now it was little Johnny’s momma’s turn to go to the toilet! Sure enough, she got diarrhea and had BBs all in his runny shitty stew. Little Johnny was laughing at his family falling for his dastardly deed. Later that night, as his family kept shitting and bleeding and pissing, he pulled out his secret porno mag he had stashed in the barn and started choking his chicken like a Georgia mountain lion in heat. He was overcome with ecstasy and his body spasmed. Then his cock exploded like never before. Just then little Johnny’s daddy came running out of the barn and said, ‘It’s a miracle! We’re having fried chicken tonight. These birds fell from the sky! Thank the Lord!’ And then little Johnny said, ‘Daddy, that ain’t from the sky! I came BBs out of my dick just now!’” Dillon grinned his ugly ass teeth and took a bow, accepting the crowd’s initial silence as a standing ovation rendered speechless.
Vladimir grabbed a measuring tape and flung it like a hookshot at the redneck dork’s face. The sharp end struck his glasses and broke his nose. Beans could throw like mad, his hands hardened by grenades in Ukraine. Dillon immediately broke into tears, but he at least tried to remain strong.
“What the hell did you do that for? I was just telling you a story!” the dork shrieked and cried.
Vladimir had no words left for the swamp dweeb. He pushed Dillon down onto the tattered carpet below. As Dillon went into shock and cried more, Vladimir began stabbing him with his homemade seaming blade. These was mild cuts, not intended to kill, but to prolong pain. With unspoken agreement for the deed that was to take place, Roach immediately filled out a tag and sent Jerry over to the roller. Supervisor lit a Newport inside the building and turned on the “Closed” sign. All he had to say was, “Sometimes you gotta do what gotta do. If boy don’t work, he don’t work. If he work, he work. He don’t work, he don’t work.”
Carpet wisdom at its finest. As Dillon was stretched and twisted along the roller, Jerry instructed Harley and Troy to apply seam tape to the excruciating incisions made along his body. He had run out of tears to cry, and was going into cardiac arrest from shock. He was still entirely aware of what was happening to him, and he felt every second of pain vividly because of the high-strength dip on loan to him from Tyler.
Speaking of the silent appalachian gambler, Tyler reached into Dillon’s pocket and retrieved his can of wintergreen.
“Ain’t never waste a can of dip,” Tyler barked as he spat a wad into one of Dillon’s wounds and applied sticky seam tape. Tyler was like a surgeon, an angel of death. He thought of how he used to throw people to the gators in Mississippi. This was nothing. Still, Tyler was through speaking for the day. His comment was sufficient. Dip was surely worth more than Dillon’s shit life.
“Grab a core. The big ones. And draw a big cock on it.”
The cock was Jerry’s kiss of death. Not a violent man outside of the virtual realm, he chose to be an indirect participant in the mayhem. His conscience rationalized thusly: I only pressed the button. I was just doing my job. I told that fucking faggot before I’m here to roll carpet, and that’s what I’m fucking doing. Jerry went to sleep that night after a round of Black Ops 3 and he didn’t think about Dillon at all. Nobody did.
“Wrap him,” Supervisor said.
Harley was twisted on drugs but even he could work the saran wrap that contributed to Dillon’s slow suffocation. Austin had to tear the wrap off for him though. He put some old rotted candy he found in the bathroom in the carpet right as the wrap made its finish. Dillon’s final smells before his demise would be a cockroach-infested candy bar that even he had previously been at least smart enough to not eat for the dollar Austin offered him. He got his wish and kept his dollar. He bought three cigarettes later that evening from Javier.
As Vladimir pushed Dillon onto the floor in his final carpet form, the forklift pedophile emerged from the shadows. He sipped his Burger King soda as he callously and emotionlessly inserted his forklift prongs into Dillon’s asshole. Although the dork was well-bundled at this point, his muffled cries were still an audible source of joy for the workers of Garnet.
As the forklift pedophile dropped Dillon into the machine to be soaped, washed in scalding hot water, and dried in an industrial dryer, Vladimir turned the gigantic machine onto the Low Heat setting so Dillon could be slowcooked for maximum enjoyment. Three days later when the boy’s father called inquiring about his whereabouts, Roach answered in his trademark cocksure self-assuredness. “Your son never worked here.” Vladimir overheard this exchange and laughed.
McDonald’s Incident
“So you people don’t even turn on the fucking machine anymore, right? Every time I’m out here it’s same fat shemale telling me it’s sorry for no fucking McFlurry.”
It was payday. Carpet mill life was rough and tumbling for the young Vladimir Beans. Between the daily dairy treats from McDonald’s and the three cans of dip he went through during a shift at Garnet, he had earned himself a nice pair of false teeth due to inoperable cavities, but he didn’t regret a minute of his life. Recently turned on to Buddhism by his shift lead, Vladimir lived in the present. A refugee from the Ukrainian
Civil War, Beans never knew the word his people used to express the distinctly Western notion of “regret.” The emotion simply wasn’t in the language whatsoever.
But there was a good bit in Beans’ speech patterns retained from the Old Country, and not all of it was pretty. This poor McDonald’s employee was being verbally eviscerated as a crowd of starved poked fun, texted, and guffawed. This fat he-she was tearing up as Beans delivered the goods yet again. He had recently become infamous at Garnet for managing to make the new kid cry more than once, and that was before beating his fucking ass on the premises. Rocky looked away - he knew he was hiring a fucking dork, and such dweebs made excellent sport for the battle-hardened Vladimir. Keep them coming. And can we get more McDonald’s assholes like this creep? This is fun.
Vladimir recently learned a new word while at the roller with Jerry. Vladimir, when prompted as to whether or not he’d prefer to drink duck cum or let a frog live in his ballsack, merely recounted a delightful story from the Old Country. Not too important a yarn, but a rollicker at bars and suppertime, many old world diners as well. Some aspects of American etiquette still eluded young Vladimir.
“Duck and frog, you say? Sometimes all we had to eat. I watched them die with pleasure.”
Jerry laughed. “You’re fucking psycho! Did you ever fuck one of their bodies?”
Usually a hit joke, this classic line of Jerry’s fell flat as one of Supervisor’s freshest seams. Vladimir had enough Ukrainian in him to not sense the ridiculousness of Jerry’s foolish line of questioning.
“Yes,” he answered with a straight face.
“Did you hear that? Tony, he said he fucked dead animals in fucking Sweden!” Jerry was enthralled. Tony simply danced in response - it was how the soulful seamer laughed. He simply grooved. Vladimir was of a harsher, denser consistency.
“Sometimes it was all we had in Ukraine. Our neighbors who moved here - the Hooks. Friends of ours. They will tell you.”
“This motherfucker up here talking about Captain Hook and shit!” Tony grooved onward, forgetting this moment in favor of the next.
Jerry was wearing his Modern Warfare 2 backpack to work that day. He packed a hardy lunch - Rap Snacks he’d bartered for cigarettes from Tony. If Tony smoked him in a match after that night’s shift, Jerry owed him a bag.
“I like the match where you kill… what do Americans call them? Civilians.”
Conversation came to a halt as Jerry and company guffawed again. Vladimir enjoyed the popularity - he liked being a spectacle.
“Damn, you’re fucking psycho!” There was that word again.
“Psycho, you say? I don’t understand.” Vladimir’s genuine earnest nature and perplexed, childlike demeanor was again accepted by the crowd as high stand-up comedy but Beans had no issue with this. He’d gobbled countless xanax the prior break in a competition with the Puerto Rican outlaw, Wendel, known as the Carpet Commando, for his warlike workman techniques. It was a brave showing, and the Slavic kicker’s inhibitions were reduced to nothing. He was social dynamite - he could have whipped his cock out in front of his coworkers, masturbated upon them, and they’d accept it for its Slavic smoothness and authenticity. This was a taste of the east.
Jerry prodded forth with a snicker but was cut off by Tony’s saxophone voice.
“Means your ass is cold and fucking crazy!” The crowd affirmed this.
Vladimir grinned.
Back to the drive-thru. Vladimir was feeling that same social buzz from before - he could tell the army of Varnell tweekers and miscreants were awaiting his next zinger as he shamelessly turned the breasted, nasal, dorky McDonald’s ameba into dogshit in front of everybody.
“I don’t believe you when you say machine is broken, how your titties get so big then? You look like you live off mcflurry!”
Vladimir could sense the flashes of smartphones hitting him. Another American phrase sprung to him, and he felt like he had an erection fueled by methamphetamine. Such highs were previously thought unattainable by the tough Ukrainian lad, but he’d never experienced a payday McDonald’s drive-thru smackdown with a packed audience. Tears streamed down the employee’s face and his speech was rendered incomprehensible such was the amount of snot and fucked up gargling noises. He needed a diaper change, and fueled by the shift lead’s passion for oneness and spontaneity, young Vladimir was inspired as if by Siddhartha himself (“Who?” Vladimir might add) to give the McDonald’s worker the diaper change he desperately needed.
If Beans had not been so possessed by evil and narcissistic bliss in this moment, he might have noticed the turn of the crowd’s favor as this drive-thru smackdown crossed the line from a Socratic display of wit and wordplay into a full-on literal assault and humiliation. He grabbed the McDonald’s blob and spat a gob of minty wintergreen in the young bitch’s face. The worker hyperventilated and cried, swallowing bits of Beans’ DNA with the snot he was already recycling through his bitchy looking mouth. Vladimir had such strength from carpets and coal mines he shoved backwards and launched the fat dork into the supposed broken machine. If it wasn’t broken before, it goddamn was then.
“The Americans will love my roasting of this gay chicken,” thought Vladimir. He turned up the radio and hightailed it out of the parking lot in style. He forgot about the incident immediately, such was his nature. True spontaneity - not his fault some dipshit didn’t have his own restaurant’s fucking food. Vladimir could not see why Americans simply accepted that this “man” had the gall to assume himself the role of a street merchant when he was telling every paying customer that his restaurant was not serving the foods listed on the menu. Food store, no food? This was another difference in humor and social norms between Varnell and the Old Country. If not taken as a poor joke, McDonald’s not serving its own menu at night time was met first by Vladimir with the same deadpan coldness Jerry displayed at the roller when inquiring about animal sex and fucking dead babies. If not immediately apologized for and excused as a piss poor display of mercantile, Vladimir’s second reaction was to raise immortal hell and engage in a public shaming. Fuck him. Vladimir drove to Cook Out and enjoyed thick shakes without feminine whines accompanying.
After a one day weekend of senseless drinking, Vladimir returned to work with a hangover he was desperate to sweat out. Roach and Supervisor had explained the deal. Sixteen hour shift. No gay crap - it was proving time in the killing fields. Kick or be kicked.
Numbers were up so Vladimir decided he would show the Americans some of the generosity they so lacked. Beans was a multiculturalist in the purest sense - he wanted to share his finest values and bond with the world. Roach’s Buddhist teachings enhanced this desire. Vladimir Beans decided to buy McDonald’s for his coworkers as a surprise for their gallantry and determination. It was going to be a great break. Big Macs for all.
Vladimir returned with more burgers than he could count. If the Americans liked burgers, it was burgers they received. Kill them with kindness was not a phrase in the coal mines of Ukraine, but Beans began to understand it. Except kindness was weak - he saw his carpet brethren as true brothers to be honored. He began chanting in his head, “Big mac! 1, 2, 3! Carpet! 4, 5, 6!” It was like an old folk song, but the words came to him like honey. Soul was flowing. Vladimir was proud to be alive.
There was one small problem, however. As Vladimir handed out burgers, he was met with a question. This was not the usual Jerry question. The new kid, Dillon, a bizarre mix of dork and redneck, chewed along and smirked as he began wasting Vladimir’s time. It was obvious to all that the boy had no spine or cock to speak of, and merely wished to be liked by this gang of kickers and seamers. Dillon asked Vladimir if he wanted a popsicle. The voice he used was not his normal hillbilly retard voice.
Vladimir remained stonefaced and then upturned an eyebrow with the strength and severity typically reserved for intense deadlifts or the taking of lives during wartime. “Come again, child?” “Child,” of course, was Beans’ nickname for the dorky carpet apprentice ever since beating his ass. It was a hit with coworkers.
Dillon’s resolve was unchanged. He needed to be accepted. His entire brain was a movie frozen on one scene - a dictionary of two simple words, one pathetic phrase: LIKE ME. LIKE ME. LIKE ME. It played endlessly in his head. Dillon clinged to the foolish notion that he could use his charm to win over those at Garnet. What he had not grasped yet was that even his mother did not find him charming. He bored dead people. He told jokes that would embarrass squirrels. A phrase from Ukraine summed up the gopher-toothed dipshit boy: some grenades don’t go off! His brain was a weak, retarded grenade. Every word he spoke was met as if it was a fart.
“You want a popsicle, Vlad?” Dillon grinned. He “knew” he was winning Vladimir’s favor...much like those of the past knew the earth was flat. Vladimir entertained himself with that thought, and fantasized of flattening Dillon’s face with brute force.
Another wrong prediction by the dipping gopher fuckstick, he smiled like his hero, Sy from Duck Dynasty, and mistook Vladimir’s smirks of pity for genuine amusement and good nature. He rattled on.
“You want to hear the story of little Johnny?”
“What relevance does this tale have? Why would I want to hear story of Johnny - his seams are strong. I do not want gossip,” Vladimir said.
Dillon continued like the world’s shittiest, stupidest record. He was about to turn up the volume. He assumed a caricatured southern dialect for this queef tale of retardation, another social faux pas by this evolutionary reject. There were real southerners afoot, and good people like Tyler and Allen found nothing in Dillon’s remarks except disrespect, like the boy had adorned blackface and began extoling the virtues of fried chicken and watermelon in front of Tony’s own preacher. Dillon ignored the groans and told his tale, a tale that some in the audience had already heard. This was maybe the least popular story in history.
“One day little Johnny was outside playing with his BB gun, as we southerners tend to do. Johnny smelled the enticing aroma of his momma’s blueberry pie. Well, some of yall already know little Johnny was also quite the prankster. He put two and two together and little Johnny put BBs in his momma’s pie. His family ate the pie without a second wager, ‘cuz the whole town knew how good little Johnny’s momma’s pies was.”
By this point in the story, even the Supervisor was staring incredulously. Work had reached a standstill. Carpet no longer existed, as the entire building stared at this slackjawed dumbass recounting his pathetic story yet again.
“Well, sure as a cucumber in spring, we southerners tend to get ourselves the shits and pisses after we eat, and little Johnny’s family one-by-one was taking themselves some stinky shits. First, his daddy says, ‘I’m shitting BBs!’ The rest of the clan hoped this was simply an isolated incident, but little Johnny knew what was to come! His poor sister was next - she had her first period that day and screamed from the outhouse, ‘I’m bleeding BBs from my pussy! Momma, daddy, come look at my blood!’ Surely a horrible sight.”
Tony gagged a bit. Kevin’s eyes were straightened, such was the intense focus. Even Roach was acting like he’d just been prison raped again. Speechless. Dillon continued.
“Well, now it was little Johnny’s momma’s turn to go to the toilet! Sure enough, she got diarrhea and had BBs all in his runny shitty stew. Little Johnny was laughing at his family falling for his dastardly deed. Later that night, as his family kept shitting and bleeding and pissing, he pulled out his secret porno mag he had stashed in the barn and started choking his chicken like a Georgia mountain lion in heat. He was overcome with ecstasy and his body spasmed. Then his cock exploded like never before. Just then little Johnny’s daddy came running out of the barn and said, ‘It’s a miracle! We’re having fried chicken tonight. These birds fell from the sky! Thank the Lord!’ And then little Johnny said, ‘Daddy, that ain’t from the sky! I came BBs out of my dick just now!’” Dillon grinned his ugly ass teeth and took a bow, accepting the crowd’s initial silence as a standing ovation rendered speechless.
Vladimir grabbed a measuring tape and flung it like a hookshot at the redneck dork’s face. The sharp end struck his glasses and broke his nose. Beans could throw like mad, his hands hardened by grenades in Ukraine. Dillon immediately broke into tears, but he at least tried to remain strong.
“What the hell did you do that for? I was just telling you a story!” the dork shrieked and cried.
Vladimir had no words left for the swamp dweeb. He pushed Dillon down onto the tattered carpet below. As Dillon went into shock and cried more, Vladimir began stabbing him with his homemade seaming blade. These was mild cuts, not intended to kill, but to prolong pain. With unspoken agreement for the deed that was to take place, Roach immediately filled out a tag and sent Jerry over to the roller. Supervisor lit a Newport inside the building and turned on the “Closed” sign. All he had to say was, “Sometimes you gotta do what gotta do. If boy don’t work, he don’t work. If he work, he work. He don’t work, he don’t work.”
Carpet wisdom at its finest. As Dillon was stretched and twisted along the roller, Jerry instructed Harley and Troy to apply seam tape to the excruciating incisions made along his body. He had run out of tears to cry, and was going into cardiac arrest from shock. He was still entirely aware of what was happening to him, and he felt every second of pain vividly because of the high-strength dip on loan to him from Tyler.
Speaking of the silent appalachian gambler, Tyler reached into Dillon’s pocket and retrieved his can of wintergreen.
“Ain’t never waste a can of dip,” Tyler barked as he spat a wad into one of Dillon’s wounds and applied sticky seam tape. Tyler was like a surgeon, an angel of death. He thought of how he used to throw people to the gators in Mississippi. This was nothing. Still, Tyler was through speaking for the day. His comment was sufficient. Dip was surely worth more than Dillon’s shit life.
“Grab a core. The big ones. And draw a big cock on it.”
The cock was Jerry’s kiss of death. Not a violent man outside of the virtual realm, he chose to be an indirect participant in the mayhem. His conscience rationalized thusly: I only pressed the button. I was just doing my job. I told that fucking faggot before I’m here to roll carpet, and that’s what I’m fucking doing. Jerry went to sleep that night after a round of Black Ops 3 and he didn’t think about Dillon at all. Nobody did.
“Wrap him,” Supervisor said.
Harley was twisted on drugs but even he could work the saran wrap that contributed to Dillon’s slow suffocation. Austin had to tear the wrap off for him though. He put some old rotted candy he found in the bathroom in the carpet right as the wrap made its finish. Dillon’s final smells before his demise would be a cockroach-infested candy bar that even he had previously been at least smart enough to not eat for the dollar Austin offered him. He got his wish and kept his dollar. He bought three cigarettes later that evening from Javier.
As Vladimir pushed Dillon onto the floor in his final carpet form, the forklift pedophile emerged from the shadows. He sipped his Burger King soda as he callously and emotionlessly inserted his forklift prongs into Dillon’s asshole. Although the dork was well-bundled at this point, his muffled cries were still an audible source of joy for the workers of Garnet.
As the forklift pedophile dropped Dillon into the machine to be soaped, washed in scalding hot water, and dried in an industrial dryer, Vladimir turned the gigantic machine onto the Low Heat setting so Dillon could be slowcooked for maximum enjoyment. Three days later when the boy’s father called inquiring about his whereabouts, Roach answered in his trademark cocksure self-assuredness. “Your son never worked here.” Vladimir overheard this exchange and laughed.
Guts Gets Some
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- Registrado
- 9 de Nov, 2018
You really need "Person of interest" on your username.
M
MW 002
Guest
kiwifarms.net
Not to powerlevel too hard, but I’ve got terminally ill writers in my circle of betas who still at least try to get better. On this site, we laugh at people who are too egotistical to take any advice into consideration just to let you know.
If you can’t take advice and you want people to just praise your work, I suggest going to DeviantArt and writing weird fetish fiction.
Like I said, you should probably seek out a Beta Reader to help you pin point mistakes you make and follow advice when given.
- Registrado
- 20 de Jun, 2016
'cool consternation' doesn't quite work, sorry. Also lots of going back and force between 3rd and first person.
Khorne Flakes
kiwifarms.net
- Registrado
- 2 de Mayo, 2018
This is him? How'd you get the picture?
- Registrado
- 12 de Feb, 2017
Deleted it for unnecessary Halal. He seems like a boring schizo.
Q
QU 734
Guest
kiwifarms.net
- Registrado
- 19 de Dic, 2018
This is a travesty
- Registrado
- 14 de Oct, 2015
I clicked on this thinking “really? they can’t be this oblivious”, but yep they are. Yet another skitzo finds their way home to the Farms.
- Registrado
- 28 de Feb, 2015
this isnt wattpad, kiddo
- Registrado
- 12 de Feb, 2017
F
- Registrado
- 28 de Feb, 2015
littlestclown
kiwifarms.net
- Registrado
- 5 de Ene, 2019
can i type yet?
Q
QU 734
Guest
kiwifarms.net
I don't think so.
- Registrado
- 12 de Feb, 2017
Your posts are spitting out a lot of numbers on our end
- Registrado
- 20 de Jun, 2016
Welcome back to the terrordome
Have considered writing Hiphop lyrics at all? You might be a horrorcore guy.