Hate, The Motherfucker (Part 2)
**If someone is actually reading this, let it be known that this is part of a novella that includes "Hate, The Motherfucker", a piece published in "Quit Me".
The alarm clock was the cigarette burning my two already yellow-stained fingers. One of which was a calloused trigger finger. I woke up and smelled the last of the butt burning the carpet sample just beneath my hand, hanging off the bed. I vomited on the potential fire and realized that I had only been asleep for a few minutes, but it was enough. As much as I need sleep, I fear it these days. When I am asleep, my ghosts drink margaritas and dance on my crotch. I know this because when I wake up, my cock hurts and my tequila is gone.
It is 7am on the calendar Someday. The bars are re-opening after their five minute "wash the cum out" (into the waterways which is why I only drink alcohol) break. But I don't want to sleep. I take "Book" which keeps me awake. It helps blur reality for a bit. But ultimately, I know that if I fall asleep, Hate, the motherfucker will get me. There are also things out there that I feel like I should be apart of. I don't want to wake up half-way through the apocalypse, I want to feel it beginning to end.
So here's what is going on right now, after I jumped out the window and ran to the bar.
The bartender is in the bathroom taking a shit while getting a blowjob from the hooker who always shows up at 8 am, just after he sets up his Mise en Place of guns, knives, alcohol and Rimbaud poems. The hooker, whose name I choose to forget, gets seven free drinks between Monday through Friday for facilitating in the bartender's fetish.
The bartender serves me a drink then walks the hooker into the bathroom. I know what happens because I can smell the hell on her breath when she asks me for a light while she a gets one of her free drinks served to her, "mouthwash".
I watch him scratch his dick and I wonder if these two are actually married and just playing fetish games while the bombs drop.
(to be continued...)
The alarm clock was the cigarette burning my two already yellow-stained fingers. One of which was a calloused trigger finger. I woke up and smelled the last of the butt burning the carpet sample just beneath my hand, hanging off the bed. I vomited on the potential fire and realized that I had only been asleep for a few minutes, but it was enough. As much as I need sleep, I fear it these days. When I am asleep, my ghosts drink margaritas and dance on my crotch. I know this because when I wake up, my cock hurts and my tequila is gone.
It is 7am on the calendar Someday. The bars are re-opening after their five minute "wash the cum out" (into the waterways which is why I only drink alcohol) break. But I don't want to sleep. I take "Book" which keeps me awake. It helps blur reality for a bit. But ultimately, I know that if I fall asleep, Hate, the motherfucker will get me. There are also things out there that I feel like I should be apart of. I don't want to wake up half-way through the apocalypse, I want to feel it beginning to end.
So here's what is going on right now, after I jumped out the window and ran to the bar.
The bartender is in the bathroom taking a shit while getting a blowjob from the hooker who always shows up at 8 am, just after he sets up his Mise en Place of guns, knives, alcohol and Rimbaud poems. The hooker, whose name I choose to forget, gets seven free drinks between Monday through Friday for facilitating in the bartender's fetish.
The bartender serves me a drink then walks the hooker into the bathroom. I know what happens because I can smell the hell on her breath when she asks me for a light while she a gets one of her free drinks served to her, "mouthwash".
I watch him scratch his dick and I wonder if these two are actually married and just playing fetish games while the bombs drop.
(to be continued...)
