As if two jobs and as much photography as I can possibly squeeze in wasn't enough, I thoroughly enjoy writing short stories. Creative writing. Though my style may not be to the liking of some people, as it's blunt and often from the dark side of humanity. But I don't write for other people. I write for my own pleasure and to maintain good mental health. Here is a sample for you.
With Otis Redding’s “Tramp” in his head phones, it didn’t take him long to cross the courtyard from the barn, past the slurry tank to the farm house. Once inside, his clothes came off quickly and almost landed where it was supposed to...almost: In the laundry basket in the boiler room, right next to the entrance, where the laundry was hooked up. “I’m doing their dirty work”, he thought to himself, “so they can wash my fucking clothes. It smells more of shit than Chanel”. And that was probably true. Cleaning out after the pigs and the cows in the barn, didn’t leave you with a particularly exquisite or delightful scent, but right now he didn’t give a shit ‘cause it was Friday and tonight, him and his buddy was going to town to have a few cold ones and just enjoy the beginning of the weekend.
He turned the taps off, flung the shower curtains to the side and stepped out of the shower. Grabbed his towel and went over to the mirror. He couldn’t see a dam thing – completely fogged up, so he opened the door and wiped down the mirror with his hand the best he could, took a good look at the guy in the blurry, spotted image and then ran the same hand through his wet hair. “Not bad for a farm boy”, he told himself. He almost looked and smelled half decent, now, after a good hot scrub, and after going a little overboard on his Axe deodorant, he was quite pleased with himself and hit the bedroom to get dressed.
“Well, it’s not like I have a collection of Armani suits and Fluevogs to go but it’s not exactly a fucking fashion show either, is it? It’s a few cold ones and if I’m lucky – if either one of us are lucky – there might be a nice girl getting caught in the net”. “Either one of us” would be either himself or his buddy he would meet up with later.
He ended up with a pair of clean jeans and a nice, white T-shirt. Casual, but not bad. At least it was clean and not a single wrinkle was to be had, anywhere. He threw a few poses, naked in front of the mirror, but failed to get as excited as Jean-Claude van Damme or John Holmes surely must have been when they were young and stood in front of the mirror, naked, and so he plugged in Otis again, this time to the main system and then cranked it up. He just loved the drums on “Tramp”. Right from the instant beginning, the tone is set and the beat of the drums make your feet dance uncontrollably and it all turns into higher bliss when the horn section joins in. And so he stands there in front of the mirror in his bedroom, practicing a few moves as his mind takes off like a Condor high on the Andes sky, soaring, soaring even higher, only to come down slowly, softly, without a single flap of the wings.
It’s the phone that jolts him back to reality. Kyle, his buddy from the neighbouring farm, on the other end: “Are you ready, Buddy”? “Give me an hour or so. I’ll drop by your place first thing when I leave here” he tells him. He snaps back into reality and goes downstairs to the huge farm kitchen to see if there’s anything worth eating. Plenty of things to eat but nothing that really whispers his name and so he grabs his green suede jacket with the denim sleeves, walks out and slams the door behind him.
Across the courtyard he opens the giant gates of the old barn that’s now used as equipment and machinery depot and the first sight to pain his eyes like needles in your cornea, is the old Massey Ferguson that looks like something that was cool in 1945. It also looks like something that hasn’t driven since then. Rusty and falling apart. “Oh my. How long are they going to keep that old useless piece of shit”, he thinks to himself and looks around to see if there should be anything interesting to catch his attention. Nuttin'!
A few pigeons land on the ground in front of him in the yellow rays of the sun, as he opens the old, squeaky gate in the barn again, walks out, shields his eyes from the sun with his right hand and closes the gate with his left. Then he remembers, as it comes into vision: “Ya, right. Over by the stainless steel grain silo”. That’s there he flung his moped last week when they got home. Just another relic from the past, but he was proud of it because he’d souped it up all by himself and even with Kyle riding bitch, he could probably outrun Danny Dickhead – the local country cop – without too much trouble. He wasn’t even sure of Danny’s last name but since nobody liked him, he’d always just been “Danny Dickhead” to the locals. It looked like Danny Dickhead was more interested in stuffing his fat gut than actually done any real work. He know for sure he could out-run him and if pursued by D.D. in his cruiser, he know that his souped up moped was quite useful as an off-roader, too. If Danny Dickhead was enough of a dickhead to follow him across a newly plowed field in his cruiser, ha! Wouldn’t that be a sight for the heavens to see. Cruiser stuck in the mud, Dickhead in the middle of it all, no cruiser, in to his knees and his ‘catch’ taking off on him in the horizon. Well, he would have to leave his boots in the mud and go as if the old Massey Ferguson could pull his cruiser of out the mud. Everything for a price, of course. Oh, Danny. Don’t you see it? You are just…not…going…to win.
He jumps the kick-start on the moped and instantly it fires up and lets him know it’s ready to serve his every wish. It ain’t new and it sure as hell ain’t pretty, but Yamaha, properly souped up, is as good as Meatloaf’s bike in bat out of hell. It will plow you right out from the Earth’s inner core to the outer realms of heaven with a single turn of your wrist.
He rolls off the property, down the snarly country road at a leisurely pace in the last warm rays of the late summer sun, backdropped by an orange glow. He’s in no big hurry and enjoys the ride down the winding road with elm trees on both sides. “Quite the nice scenery” he thinks to himself, turns around a bend, disappears behind a grove of trees on a small hill and emerges a few seconds later coming out of the grove on the other side. Turning left onto Kyle’s long gravel driveway, he lets it rip and disappears in a huge cloud of dust that must have looked more like General Custer and his armys’ final attack on Little Big Horn than a guy on an old moped. For a full minute, he gives it everything he’s got, going full throttle, riding his pedals like a jockey on his million dollar Arabian stallion at the Grand National Steeplechase. Just in time he sees Kyle at the end of the gravel road, pulls a sharp left as he throws the beast down on it’s left, points the front wheel up and hits the foot brake with velocity while supporting the maneuver with his left foot on the ground. The cloud of dust whipped up takes a full minute to dissipate and finally Kyle comes into view. Totally chill but with only his left eyebrow raised, Kyle goes: “You’re in the wrong business, Dude. Have you ever heard of Erik Gundersen” Kyle asks and pads the grass under the tree where his sitting with his right hand as a sign to Nick to sit down. Nick does and Kyle pulls out a bottle and offers it to his buddy.
“What’s that” Nick asks. “Just some stuff to warm you up and get the dam dust out of your throat. I brewed it myself”. “Moonlight”, says Nick. “Tastes like weasel piss and turpentine but it’s cheap and it’ll shave the mould right off your balls without ever touching them” Kyle explains.
Nick looks at Kyle, grabs the bottle and takes a good chug. First there’s nothing, but after a few seconds the fireworks start and Tchaikovsky’s 1812 overture is hammering in one ear with Grieg’s Hall of the Mountain King in the other. Shooting through his brain, from one ear to the other is Dynamite by the Scorpions and it feels like barbed wire is being pulled through his throat but Nick quickly learns that if he keeps his fucking mouth shut and breathes through his nose, it’s not bad at all. He takes a deep breath, holds it for 15 seconds and then slowly exhales through his nose. “Fuck, that’s good shit, man” he says to Kyle and takes another chug. “Ya, pretty good, isn’t it? I figured it would warm us up a little bit. Smoke?”, he asks, and pulls out a big fat one from a tin in his breast pocket. “Hell, ya”. They share it and soon they are both lying on their backs in the grass looking at naked psychedelic angels in the sky in wild fornication with horned devils ripping off their body parts, eating them alive. “We should probably get going” says Nick, when they both finally touch down on Mother Earth, again.
Half an hour later they park the beast in front of The Pukin’ Brawler and find a table near the back of the room, between the bark and the pool tables. It’s already well packed and quite noisy. Rammstein and Ich Will removes the last possibility of any normal conversation and the violent images of their official video is flashing on every 56” screen in the establishment. On the table next to them, a mirror, razor blade and a spoon is being prepared and somebody is pulling out a lighter from his pocket. A lane is being shared by a guy and a girl, using a straw, but somebody want the spoon and the lighter. Once melted, into the syringe and straight into the thickest blood vein they can find. Looking like already on another planet, one guy looks at Nick as if to offer a hit to him. Nick politely shakes his head as to say no thanks. It was only a few weeks ago he had his last hit. He was refused at the pearly gates but had to have his stomach pumped in the E.R. It was the closest he’s ever been to God and decides to stick to the alcohol, at least for tonight. He hit’s the bar and orders four dark Guinness and two double Bourbons. “Nevermind two. Make if four double Bourbons, please. Bulleits’, please”. The bar tender gives him a quick glance with one raised eyebrow, takes his money and pours him his drinks. Then Nick is back at the table close to the pool table. It doesn’t take long for either of them to down the first Guinness and the first double Bourbon.
Two girls are trying their luck at the pool table but they are pretty pathetic but it appears they are more there to be seen, to be looked at, than to be admired for their shark shots. One in black mini skirt that’s so short that Nick can see everything not covered by her white G-string whens she bends over to reach into the pool table. The other one likes to bend over from the opposite end of the table, leaning over so much that everyone can see all the way down through her cleavage, to her belly button, when takes her aim. While taking her aim, she looks up at Nick a couple of times and catches him looking at her big tits. Then she slowly smiles when their eyes meet, looks down her cleavage and then back at Nick. “Do you like them”, she seems to ask. They finish their next two Guinness and downs the last two double Bourbons and then they walk over to the pool table.
When the shorter girl in the black mini skirt get ready and leans over, Kyle is right behind her, rubbing himself against her ass. She doesn’t seem to mind as she doesn’t flinch and doesn’t move and inch, so he presses his erection tighter against her ass. She starts moving her ass around a little bit in a rotating, gyrating move. On her next shot, he steps out to her left a little bit and gently put his hand down her panties, on her right bun. She has all the time in the world, it seems, and so he moves his hand down, in between her legs from behind and start slowly fingering her. She’s clean shaven and it doesn’t take long before she is dripping wet.
When she misses her shot and the taller girl with the big ones lines up her cue, Kyle and the mini skirt disappears. Leaning over as much as possible, she makes sure Nick gets a good view. “I know you love them”, she says. “That’s right” he replies, adding “They make me hungry”. “Well, then you better go order some chicken wings ‘cause that’s all you are gonna be munching on tonight”.
A bit later, Kyle reappears with a smile on his face while Nick is struggling his way through a small mountain of BBQ chicken wings. “1-0 for me, I guess?”. “That’s right, so you are buying the beer, now. I really need something to flush down this dead fowl with”, Nick goes. “Nothing but a cock teaser”, he adds.
With The Hu band and “Wolf Totem” glaring on every screen, they settle into a binge on beer, Jagermeister and Tequila shooters, followed by more beer and more double Bourbons, neither of them soon able to walk or talk straight but at least Nick filled up on chicken strips so he holds it in better than Kyle who soon staggers out the door, bumping into everybody on his way and lucky to avoid a fist fight he barely makes it out the door before he empties the entire content of his stomach down his shirt and onto the mat in front of the door. The door man fails to see the humour in the situation and convinces Kyle that it’s probably a good ideas not to try to get back in again and instead he staggers around and passes out in his own pool of puke. After wondering what’s taking Kyle so long, Nick finishes off the last or their collection of intoxicants and wobbles outside to find his buddy face down in Lake Vomit.
Not sure how they made it home, Kyle goes and sit on the ledge of Nicks slurry tank while Nick goes and grabs four cold Faxe from the fridge before he joins his buddy on the ledge. They sit like that for a while, without saying a single word, just trying to ‘cool the engine’ as they wind down the night looking at the first few rays of light rising in the east.
“She had a nice, tight ass, I tell you”. Kyle finally breaks the silence. “Fucking horny little bitch. Not much for tits, but fuck, did she ever enjoy having her little tight cunt stuffed” he adds. “And clean shaven. Short chick, but what a fuck”.
“Ya, right. All talk no action” Nick says as he opens his last cold one. “You can’t prove anything”. “Sure I can” Kyle replies. “Let me show you” and completely pissed, still, he starts grabbing for his cell phone, dropping he beer into the slurry tank. In the same motion, with a “Fuck!” coming out of this mouth, his left hand grabs for the beer on its’ way away from him, bringing his upper body into a forward motion while his right hand is in his pocket trying to dig out his cell phone and he takes a full dive into the slurry tank.
He stays under for 5 seconds before he resurfaces again for fresh air and some oxygen to replace the methane from the pig shit and the cow piss but due to his intoxication and virtually defense system, he can’t keep himself up and slowly sinks back down as if taken by quick-sand, until his head finally goes under for the very last time, never to surface again. Nick sits as if paralyzed. As if he’s got no clue what’s happening. He sits like that for a while. Then he finishes his beer and walk inside to call 911. It’s going to be a beautiful sunrise…
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