Login   Sign Up 



 

Hit and Miss

by goanna_spanna 

Posted: 11 January 2004
Word Count: 1621


Font Size
 


Printable Version
Print Double spaced


Content Warning
This piece and/or subsequent comments may contain strong language.


Watching a man get run over by a truck is not nearly as unpleasant as it sounds. This may seem strange to you; in fact, it is most probably seems downright morbid. But what you must realize is that, under certain circumstances, one’s scruples will wane a bit.

I am standing on a street corner in one of those cities where everything is very old. This is a generalized way to state this, but it gets the point across. Everything has this inner layer that is rotten and soft, falling apart like the mushy brown part of an apple. Every scraggly tree seems sad and droopy, the air damp and reeking of mud…
But I digress.
I am standing on a street corner in my very best thrift store finds of castoff army jacket and perfectly round spectacles. The humidity is having no effect on my hair because I have loaded on the VO5. I have combed it especially straight and long, and even now I can envision it gleaming white in the mist. I am twenty eight, I have white hair, and I am looking positively smashing, mind you.
This day is particularly rainy and drear, those teenagers riding bikes are dripping hovering rainwater.
I am waiting on a bus.

I lied to you, forgive me.
What I meant to say was, well, I am waiting for my man.
Now, if you don’t know who the man is (not in the pseudo-slang meaning the MAN, but the softer, more dangerous meaning, the man), then, you are quite the lucky bastard. Hope you never find out.
Anyway, I am standing on a street corner, getting absolutely damp but looking fabulous none the same, and this young man cuts rudely from an alley and commences to strut down the sidewalk. He is psycho-sexual, and must believe the concrete is a catwalk. He is oozing arrogance and I hate him immediately.
However, there is a stirring in my nether regions that makes me uncomfortable. I despise being uncomfortable, because it makes me itch. Itching is nasty. For these reasons I take all precautions to never become thus, and I am irritated.
He is still walking a sinuous line, and he eyes me lasciviously.
Once again, the stirring, itch, uncomfortable, irritated.
He is wearing red and green plaid pants that brush his calves, thick black boots, and a quite fitting orange tee shirt. His electric red hair kisses his shoulders.
He is malicious; I know this at once.
His shirt is too short, and it tugs up and shows the muscle lines on either side that stretch from hip to cock. I think I catch a glimpse of carroty pubic hair. I take snapshots with my mind.
I notice this because he is eyeing me, and perhaps looks more splendid than I.
I am now thoroughly annoyed, and I have a raging erection.
I fidget and light a cigarette, in moments smelling the faint sweat and mask of cannabis.
“Hey old man, got a light?”
I glance up from my smoke and into feral green eyes. On his breath is the sour perfume of beer. He is grinning at me, but my jacket covers my pouting crotch. His teeth are surprisingly white as he gnashes them.
Without a word I flick my silver and produce a flame. An Irish flag is stitched to the ass of his pants. I should have known.
“Not much older than you, mucker,” I say, voice gravelly compared to his, and he sticks the tip of a clove cigarette into the fire. My eyes stray to the patch of scarlet I know is bushy behind the few straggling hairs. Now that I am this close, I can see the faint outlines of rings piercing his nipples.
“Really?” he raises an eyebrow and thrusts his pelvis towards me, resting an elbow on one bony hip, and I’m hit with another surge of blood.
This is thoroughly unpleasant.
“How much? I’m newly twenty-one,” he boasts.
“That would explain the reek of beer on you, mick.” I smooth down my hair and see him following my movements. Such an innocent little punk, probably looking for some fix. I am suddenly self conscious of my lips’ thinness.
“Wanna celebrate my birthday with me, father?” he taunts, clove smoke billowing in an evil cloud.
“Those of us who are twenty-eight have better things to do than trapeze about on the town with a bottle and a swagger,” I say, talking grand because I know he knows no better.
The boy lets out a raucous laugh, and I can see the whorls on the roof of his pink mouth. Once again …
Uncomfortable.
Icky.
A Catholic church’s clock strikes six somewhere down the hazy wet streets. My man has not made it today, and the sky is getting blacker and blacker.
I can feel his feline eyes on me again, pushing gently at the edges of my thoughts, persuading.
“Come now, father, your date has left you alone. You could spend my birthday with me, even without a bottle and a swagger.”
I secede.

I discover soon the boy’s name is Timothy, that he is a flash of energy, and that he is nearly flaming. I also learn that he was lying about the bottle, for soon he is gulping Guinness at an alarming rate.
Of course, I am Czech, so perhaps the stigma of Irish tolerance for beer is true.
I feel much less fabulous now. I smell of old musty cigarettes and piss from the streets. My coat is dank, and I am in sore need of my man. Timothy does keep my attention, however.
In the bar he brushes my skeletal leg and slinks his ghostly hands to my crotch. His wicked teeth gleam at me and I throb hard against his hand.
“I know two things you want, old man. I can give you both. Celebrate my birthday with me.”
I hand him twenty dollar bills at the slightest suggestion.

At one o’clock Timothy wobbles from the bar, clinging to my arm. I am sober, since alcoholic beverages make me queasy. He is rowdy and flamboyant, stopping to toss over garbage cans and perform other petty vandalisms. I follow like a dog, short on money and watching the contour of his stomach.
We stop outside a movie theater long abandoned, and without warning he presses me against a wall far back in the shadows.
The plaster is crumbing and fragile at my back; I can hear a heavy beetle scurry between my feet.
Timothy’s tongue, like a hot wet rag, is in my mouth.
For the thousandth time tonight my cock pulses hard and painful. I run my hand past the waistband of his pants and palm his dick, which stands out stiff. The crackly pubic hairs soften against my wrist as I work him.
He pushes me down, mussing my white hair, and I feel something heavy and armored squish underneath my knee.
My voguish pants are probably ruined.
I take him into my mouth with one wide gasp. He groans and slides himself in and out of my throat, not waiting for my rhythm. After five minutes he comes into my mouth before I can pull away. I turn to spit out the wad of salty hot stickiness.
Standing, I clutch his hair and inch him down.
I imagine the heat of his washcloth tongue surrounding me.

Pain explodes through my stomach, and I slide to the ground. My hand lands in squashed beetle.
This, as you might know, is the most unpleasant of all.
I am moaning in agony, and Timothy brings his thick black boot in a swift kick to my ribs.
“You little fucker,” I seethe.
He smashes a fist into my fine high cheekbones, and my perfectly round spectacles crack against the floor.
“Thanks for the beer and the head, old man,” he chortles, probing my pockets and seizing my wallet, first yanking the attached chain from my belt. He gives my cock a squeeze for good measure. “My birthday’s not ‘till March, but I appreciate the favor.”
He directs his boot to my kidneys. I roll over into my broken glasses and grunt.
“Pretty good for an old man,” he says to my back, and I can hear the smile in his voice. I squeeze my eyes shut. The only thing to see now is crumbling plaster and a wad of congealing stuff on the concrete.
I hear his footsteps tap away from me, and I roll back over, through the glass, procuring every disgusting fluid on my prize castoff army jacket.
He is walking away, still laughing in drunken hysterics, pleased with himself.
I must admit, he was convincing.
From nearly nowhere, a late-night trash truck turns a corner and Timothy dances into its grill. His head splatters like a dropped gourd; my wallet flies and skids a few feet from my hand.
The truck brakes furiously, and I can hear muted yawps from the workers.
Standing, I pick up my wallet and cough up a sizable plug of blood. Smoothing my hair, I pick out a few prickly insect legs. Tugging at the corners of my jacket. The rich smell of gore is seeping from Timothy in the street.
I pick up my glasses and punch out the cracked lenses. The frames look fantastic on my face.
I catch my reflection in a shard of glass still left in the movie display.
I look positively smashing.

I am standing on a street corner in one of those cities where everything is old. The wind is blowing brisk and biting.
I see my man, huddled into his coat, loping quickly down the street.















Favourite this work Favourite This Author


Comments by other Members



Account Closed at 11:56 on 12 January 2004  Report this post
Anna,

I was half-way through your short story and I thought this is like Oscar Wilde meets William Burrourghs and I absolutely adored it. Then on your website journal you have a pic of Burroughs. The interesting thing is that you writing style is your own, unique and powerful but VERY readable, as in, I want to read more, right now lol :)

No doubt you may get criticisms from other readers for the content, some may even refuse to comment, but keep writing because 'Hit And Miss' is just the kind of thing I want to read on a Monday morning, brilliant. 21st century writing has finally arrived. Burrough's can finally rest in his grave now.

Steven McNay

Jubbly at 12:35 on 12 January 2004  Report this post
I think Steven's hit the nail on the head with the Burroughs/Wilde comparison. Your writing has a rawness to it that is truly compelling. Once I began reading I simply couldn't stop until I'd finished,then went back for some more. Great stuff, more please.

Julie

tinyclanger at 19:32 on 12 January 2004  Report this post
Same here, G. I was just browsing the new stuff and then this grabbed me and I couldn't leave.
Very real and raw, you paint the picture splendidly. I can see Timothy 'dancing into its grill"

A great read!
tc


Dee at 20:29 on 12 January 2004  Report this post
What a great opening line.

Dee

SamMorris at 20:53 on 12 January 2004  Report this post
Really enjoyed the style of this piece. Raw and a little wicked. Reminded me of that song by the Velvet Underground, but this sounds like a different sort of man altogther. It seems a hard trick to pull, to put something a bit shocking in that really adds to a piece.

Nice work.

Sam


To post comments you need to become a member. If you are already a member, please log in .