Sunday, January 4, 2009

1/4 Hint: It's Not a dog

It's fucking hot. I came in to 7-ll for a goddamn Slurpee and its hotter than the Heat Mizer's balls for fuck's sake. I just poured my Slurpee and its looking more like a slushy- which is not nearly as tasty nor re-fucking-freshing. If this is all syrup before I get to the cash register I'm going to pour half of it into the give-a-penny-take-a-penny cup and the other half into the bin of cheap lighters.

Wait. That's chick's handbag just moved. Is she keeping her cockapoodle or chiuaua or some shitty dorkie in that bag? What a bitch! Its sweltering in here and that dog can't hardly breathe smothered in that black leather bag.

I take a sip of my Slurpee and confirm it is not yet syrup. I am pleased. I contemplate the beef sticks and hear somebody's stomach gurgle. I know its not a fart. Anything that actually exited a person's body and made that beastly a noise would certainly emit a nostril singeing odor. And while I smell a slight sulfuric scent, I figure its just eggs. This place isn't exactly known for being hygenic. I mean, the same hotdogs have been on those rollers so long, I know them all by name. And I only come in here 3 times a month- after noodlin'.

So this chick's bag moves again and I feel I have to say something. I tap her lightly on her shoulder and she turns towards me and looks through me. Not at me- completely through me. Its fucking weird.

Hey- I tell her. Your dog probably can't breathe in there with it being so hot in here.
She looks down at the bag and slowly parts the top and son-of-a-whore that ungodly smell just bursts out of that thing.

"Jesus fuck lady! What did you feed your goddamn dog? Its dying in there! Do you not fucking smell that shit?" I yell at her and squeeze my Slurpee cup so hard that brown and red Slurpee explodes out of my hands and all over the cigarettes and titty magazines. Not like they weren't sticky anyway.

The deep gut sound rumbles within the bag and before I can cuss her out again, a black leg... no...no...no... that's not a leg- its a.. oh fuck me- that' s goddamn tentacle! It roils against the bag- straining to escape. The bitch's eyes never move. The bag glows like some twisted jack-o-lantern and something screeches- but it doesn't come from her bag. I mean, it does- but it sounds a mile away. which is about 180 degress from where I want to be right now.

CG notes: I cannot get Green Day's "American Idiot" out of my head. Thanks, Laurie. In case it wasn't obvious- my idiom was "Hell in a handbasket."

Assignment Notes: Choose an American idiom and use its literal meaning as the basis for a story.

2 comments:

tipsy texter said...

dude, that was awesome! i really loved the part about the sticky titty mags :)

s i n c l a i r said...

Gross! I don't think I can ever go to 7-11 again without thinking of egg farts.