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      Like the disenfranchised star of his own personal Bright Lights, Big City episode, Harry had finally gotten it. It. And free. Thrown right in his face… which aint gettin’ any younger I might add. Had heard the voice of all time fave Telly Savalas echo across the void, “Who loves you, babe?” “Roger that and back atcha, you nut, you old Player, you!” As he rolls off her soft white shoulder, Harry imagines her teal blue parrot tattoo gliding across the chafed red sunset his stubble had given her. She called herself Cyndra, ‘The Sincere Cinderella of Sin,’ and she had some routine! Yea—uuh, Boy—eez. First of all the talk. Endless. Girl had some things on her mind. Used a lot of Thees and Thous, references to the diurnal, wolves and bats, blood, her pussy, her pussy filled with blood… Oh, and all her imagery was always lit with ‘lots and lots of those little Catholic candles?’ Then there was her scent. Musty and frilly with light florals at first, complimented nicely with stale sweat and tobacco, then rounded off with the rude awakening of something earthy, dangerous. Harry didn’t even want to look at his middle finger, much less smell it. But these were merely external observations. Sex with Cyndra had been unbelievable. She was the original demented kitten. She’d turned Harry’s brain to mushy oatmeal. He’d become a perpetual drool factory. He told her he wanted to live inside her pussy. She’d simply lit more candles, murmured some indecipherable incantations, fucked him silly again.  Later, as Harry’s brain slowly molded itself back into its former shape (cauliflower), it formed this question: Is it possible for a chick to be both Old Style and Lunatic? And by being so, thus become THE PERFECT WOMAN?

    It’s 8:30 am on a rainy Monday and Harry’s stoned. He’s a schmeer, crust on the surface of his smelly bed, who at this moment imagines himself nailed to his ceiling. He looks down on himself. After lengthy consideration, he opts against being soaked in his own urine and grudgingly hauls himself off to the bathroom.  Pulls down heinous boxers to properly admire the battered organ. Valiant little man, silently enduring a non-stop weekend of Cyndra’s relentless voodoo ceremonies. Really, that mugwort sauce with the tiny garland of woodland flowers for his penis head was going too far. Look at him go, just like Old Faithful! Unvanquished and uncomplaining, ever at the ready to perform life’s mundane sanitary chores. Man’s best friend! What have I done for you lately? I shall compose for thee… The ORGAN Symphony by Harry Schwartz! Harry felt the nascent stirrings of narcissistic self-romance even in the midst of his depression. Oh yes, Harry was depressed. He didn’t know it, but he was. That’s why he’d smoked pot at 8:00 am on a Monday; a single unconscious act that would ensure the depression lasted the rest of the day. Why was Harry depressed? Why is anyone depressed? Shouldn’t the question be why isn’t everyone depressed? Perhaps he was feeling separation anxiety from Cyndra. Perhaps loss of self. Perhaps it’s because Cyndra is perfect, therefore Harry must be an insect. It only stands to reason. Harry gazes down at his still draining member, and is jolted from his self-absorbed musings. It seems smaller somehow. Could it be? Surely there’s some rational medical explanation. The recent overuse, the pot, or this exceptionally long urination must have somehow resulted in minor shrinkage. “TEMPORARY SHRINKAGE!” he blurts out loud, startling himself. Where had he heard that? Harry was too bothered to glimpse himself in the bathroom mirror. If he had, he’d have noticed the rest of him was getting smaller too.

Posted at 4am on 11/12/2004 | comments are closed Filed Under: Fiction

"The sleep of reason
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