No title because I hate coming up with titles I can't do it
He awoke, but he didn’t open his eyes. He tried, but he found he couldn’t. He lay still for a moment, pondering this. Finally, he tried to move his arm. It responded to his command to rise. Good. He brought his hand over to his face to see what exactly the trouble with his eyes was. He gently ran his fingertips over his eyelids.
The rough texture he felt was unfamiliar. He rubbed the membranes slightly more vigorously and felt the crust that had sealed his eyes crumble away. At last, he cracked open one eye a tiny fraction of an inch and then shut it instantly, blinded by the blazing sun seemingly shining directly at him.
Relying still on his trusty arm, he used his hand to cast a shadow across his eyes and carefully tried again to open them. Success. Something was gradually coming into focus. His hand. Obviously. He parted his fingers and saw again the horribly blue sky and frankly inconsiderate white sun, bordered on four sides by metal walls rising from somewhere below his field of vision.
Suddenly, he realised he could also hear. This was when he noticed he’d been screaming, virtually continuously, since he’d first awakened. He reasoned that his mouth must know something he didn’t. Nevertheless, he shut it, just until he could get his bearings. Later, if necessary, he’d let it scream some more.
This was two senses reclaimed. He felt he was off to a good start. Then, he felt a sharp jabbing pain in his back. Several of them, even. Ah, he thought, that will be touch. He felt pain. Excellent. What was next again? Yes. Smell. How could he smell without a sense of smell? Terrible. Ha ha.
He sent a signal down to the relevant nasal organs to survey the current surrounding odour. The relevant organs complied and responded that it smelled awful. With excitement, he turned to the last sense he would have to test. One of his favourites: taste. He considered this for a brief moment and took another whiff. He decided that taste could wait. He furthermore decided that he tasted something right now, a taste he sadly recognised as that of his own vomit. This was clearly a clue. Further investigation was necessary.
With all senses accounted for, he declared to himself that it was time to reassert control over everything else. One arm, at least, was already under his control, forming a solid base of power to reclaim the rest of his body. He sent his forces to storm his other arm and force it, by any means necessary, to take over for his first arm on eye protection duty. The usurpers were quickly overthrown and the newly liberated arm gleefully cooperated. Good.
With both arms under his control, the legs, torso and even the head soon capitulated. He was once again master of his own tiny domain. This was a positive step forwards. It was now time to take action.
His first action was to turn onto his side. His faithful eyes now reported that they were looking at both the metal wall from before and a mound of garbage that he was presumably lying on. Ah. Another clue. He was lying in a dumpster. This was progress.
He turned onto his other side, but found that he was obstructed in his rotation by some obstruction. He sent out his arm to investigate, counting the nervous seconds until it returned. At last, his arm came back into view from the unknown regions underneath his side, grasping a half-empty bottle of some clear but clearly potent liquid. Yet another clue. It was all starting to come together for him. A few more lucky breaks like this and he’d be ready to make a full report.
The situation was, of course, familiar to him. He did a quick count in his head and concluded that looking over the past year or two, he awoke just as often inside a dumpster as in his own bed. A new suspicion came to him. He quickly confirmed it with another ocular expedition, seeking familiar dents and, yes, a series of scratches that crudely formed the words “I. P. FREELY WAS HERE�. This was, indeed, the same dumpster as usual.
He felt great relief. This was definitely familiar territory now. He was surprised, though, that he had been allowed to sleep out the night here. Usually, someone would manage to muster the will to awake him sometime towards three or four, after which he’d haphazardly stagger back to his grim one room apartment to sleep, perhaps with less comfort than he might have in his dumpster.
Such questions would have to wait, though. It seemed to be morning. He couldn’t be sure of what time it was, but it was not unlikely that he might have to go to work soon. He took another long whiff. Well, he’d gone to work smelling worse. His co-workers were frankly used to it. Some had attempted to talk to him about it, but they soon discovered that the smell was contagious and tenacious. This made it unwise to talk to him. They quickly resumed their habitual practise of handing him pieces of paper without ever making eye contact.
His first step now, though, would be to sit up. He set down his bottle, making very sure not to tip it over and spill his breakfast. He then places his hands in an appropriate position to brace him as he raised his upper body. Finally, he kicked his muscles into action and, like a drawbridge being raised on creaking cables, rose.
It was unusually hot, he thought, even for the summer season. This bore further investigation, as did the Mystery of the Failure of the Passers By to Awake the Drunken Dumpster Dweller. There were more pressing matters at hand now, though, so he places those issues on his mental backburner. He frowned when he thought this. His actual stove only had one burner on it and he barely ever used that. He wondered if there was such a thing as a backmicrowave, which seemed more relevant to him. This day, he noted, was shaping up to be a busy one. Many questions needing answers were presenting themselves. He prided himself on his tenacity when faced with a query. He always pursued a query until he found an answer. The trick was to avoid queries as much as possible.
But again, for now, he had a more immediate objective. To wit, he intended to finish standing up, which is a significant undertaking in the right circumstances. He gathered up his legs in what pretentious people dub a “lotus position�. He then rocked forwards and backwards, eventually employing the momentum of a forwards swing to rise up on his legs like a car jack.
Good. He was now standing. He could now move on to answer the questions that had occurred to him in the preceding minutes. Just as he prepared to leave his cozy dumpster and set out into the world, he noticed something mildly alarming. The world, with all its diverse noises, unpleasantness and people, seemed to be missing. He gazed to the left. Empty desert plain stretched out for a fair distance until he saw a rock. Beyond the rock, yet more empty desert plain seemed to dominate the landscape until it disappeared into the horizon. He gazed to the right, and saw what seemed to be an uncannily accurate mirror image of the view to the left, with the notable omission of the rock. This added a peculiar kind of serenity to the landscape that was somewhat appealing.
Still, the lack of anything was mildly unsettling. He reached down with his arm and hefted the bottle. He raised the bottle to his lips and took a sip. He lowered the bottle again. Then he did nothing for a while. He slowly turned around and looked behind him. In that direction, he saw nothing, except for a single tumbleweed, which was quite still. Apparently, no obliging wind could be found to infer motion to the tumbleweed. Satisfied, he turned back around.
After a few seconds, he turned around again, but very quickly this time. He failed to catch the tumbleweed surreptitiously tumbling. He resumed his initial facing, disappointed.
He felt it would now be appropriate to enjoy another sip from his bottle. It also occurred to him that unless the rock and tumbleweed meant to argue, such distinctions as the bottle being his were probably trivial. Nevertheless, just for his own comfort, he mentally filed bottle, rock and tumbleweed under “his�. Satisfied with this definite assertion of his influence, he took his sip.
He now remembered something from that distant oasis of pleasures he knew as last night. Or rather, that period before last night, shakily identified as yesterday. It had been a very strange day. He had been at work, playing Solitaire while downing a few shooters as usual, when some strange woman came to his desk and spoke to him. This was highly unusual in his workplace. Usually he just received a fresh sheaf of papers to ignore. This might require some more active dismissal. He shifted his gaze from his screen to this woman.
She was dressed in white, and seemingly wreathed in light of similar tint. This was the first sign that something unusual was happening. There was also the feathered wings. The wings seemed strange to him. Somehow, though, they took a backseat to the choir of trumpets that played a fanfare when she spoke. That really threw him off. He decided he might want to listen for a change.
“�must not drink alcohol!� she was saying. “The entire world is in your hands. If you keep drinking at all, everything will end before the sun rises again. Remember, do not drink any alcohol from this point onwards. Not one drop! Mankind has been given one last chance to save itself, and it has been given to you, the lowest among all men.�
He had considered it at the time and decided that though the wings were impressive, he didn’t buy it. He wrapped his hand around the glass he’d filled before this woman had shown up and downed it. He thought he heard the woman say, “Oh dear. I guess that’s it, then. We’ll have to try again with cockroaches, I think.� And then she disappeared.
He shrugged, and poured himself another drink. He had several bars to visit tonight and he intended to be drunk before he got there.
Yes. He remembered all that quite clearly now. He took another look behind him. He wanted to be sure. The tumbleweed still didn’t seem to want to move, as if spiting him. He reviewed his current situation. What he did have: a dumpster, a half empty bottle, a rock and a suspicious tumbleweed. What he didn’t have: everything else in the world he could possibly imagine.
He took another sip from the bottle, a longer one. He glared at the tumbleweed. It still wouldn’t move, taunting him with its stillness. It became clear to him that it would be him or the tumbleweed. He set out to bring justice to it. His senses, limbs and those internal organs willing to commit themselves were united in a common purpose. He would bring justice and order to this land, which he decided to name after himself: Aptypia. He felt this was good. And with nobody around to argue, it was.
Inspired by Aptyp's daily struggle with alcoholism and dedicated to all you fucking drunks out there.
New idiotic story
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POOPERSCOOPER
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Spazmo
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Potentially part 1 of something that might eventually have something like a coherent point, but probably just fart jokes.
All cliches are, of course, based on real life situations. Dark, stormy nights of the “it was a� variety do occur quite often, and in fact, one was occurring that very evening in Toronto. A young man, bundled up in a heavy cotton hoodie despite the oppressive July heat, was curled up in the doorway to an abandoned warehouse on the city’s dilapidated waterfront. He shivered, clutching himself for warmth. He heard footsteps approaching his place of rest for the evening. He wasn’t sure what time it was, having pawned his watch weeks ago to get another hit and maybe some food, but he figured he was always open for business.
He stood and stepped out of the doorway, pulling back his hood to reveal an emaciated face with sunken eyes and blackened teeth, topped with ragged hair long since grown out of control. He saw a group of men, teenagers, approaching him. As they passed, he called out to them.
“H-hey, guys, looking for, for a little company?� He did this when he had to, when the craving for heroin got too bad and he had to get just a little more or he’d die. It wasn’t so bad. Sometimes they only made him suck their dicks and they’d throw a few bills at him and leave. Sometimes, they’d hit him, too, but they usually paid okay for that.
The three teenagers stopped. One of them, a brick on legs, said, “What do you mean, company?� His face was aggressive.
“Well�well, maybe, if you want somebody to go down on you, I could do that, and you’d just give me a little money.� He’d been doing this for several years�but only when necessary, just when he really needed a hit badly… which was more and more often these days. He’d found that the shy street kid personality seemed to attract more johns. “And if you want to do m-more, that’s okay, too. Just… just gotta pay.� He was careful to avoid eye contact.
“Oh,� said the teenager, chuckling. “So you’re one of those street swell guy, right? Well, me and my buddies, we don’t like swell guy.�
The three teenagers crowded him into the doorway where he’d been trying to sleep. They reeked of alcohol. He was afraid. This had happened before as well.
***
Some time later, he was sobbing into a puddle of blood that he’d been coughing up for a little while. He could feel every individual drop of rain as it hit the back of his head. Each one was incredibly heavy, charged with the hate of a world that just seemed to want to destroy him.
He slowly rose to his knees, a position so familiar to him, a position that seemed to define his life. What were they trying to do to him? Wouldn’t it be quicker to just kill him? He rubbed his anus through his oft stained pants. The three teenagers had raped him as a parting gift, but they were only a small part of it. For six years now, since his eleventh goddamn birthday, he’d gotten nothing but shit from the world. He wanted to know why. More than that, he wanted it to stop.
He stood up and saw the huge lake Toronto was built along. A lake so big that you couldn’t see the other side. So big you could lose yourself in it. This was his answer. He wouldn’t put up with it anymore.
He walked to the dockside, right out to the end of the pier. The water lapped at the massive concrete construction a few feet below him. He could just fall in, drift away into the storm tossed lake’s waters and leave it all behind him…
He gazed intently into the fog that hung over the lake, the fog that would swallow him. So intent was he upon his lake that he didn’t hear a new figure walk up behind him.
“That’s not your only option,� said the figure, startling him. He did an instant one eighty and faced the new arrival. He saw a tall man, wearing a long black raincoat flapping dramatically in the storm’s high winds.
“What’re you talking about?� he said, eyes darting about this stranger whose gaze seemed to peer into his mind.
“There are other, better ways of dealing with this,� said the man in the coat. “It doesn’t have to end here.�
“Well why the hell shouldn’t it?� he yelled. “I haven’t got too much to live for, unless sucking dicks is the true path to spiritual enlightenment and long life!�
The man in the coat smiled. “You can leave this life, but you can do it without dying. You can make things better for yourself.�
“What? Rehab?� He laughed through his tears, cackling harshly at this unlikely ray of hope. “I’ve tried it, man, it’s crap. That methadone stuff, the counselling, whatever, it doesn’t work.�
The man in the coat smiled still, infuriatingly. “I can help you. I have… better methods.�
He found himself believing the man in the coat completely. Still, years of cynicism well honed on the hard streets of Toronto made him ask the questions.
“Why should you want to help me? Why do you care about one more street rat junkie?�
“I have my reasons, and there will be a price,� said the man in the coat. He turned his piercing glare out over the water. “But believe me, it’s much better than that.�
He followed the man in the coat’s eyes and spent a few moments looking at the lake being battered by heavy rains. Lances of lightning intermittently illuminated his ruined face consumed in thought.
“Yeah… yeah, okay,� he said. “Let’s try it.�
The man in the coat smiled. “That’s good. You’ve made your all-important first step, Atoga.�
The man in the coat turned around and walked down to the other end of the pier, where a non descript van filled with all the equipment of an ambulance was waiting. Atoga followed him.
All cliches are, of course, based on real life situations. Dark, stormy nights of the “it was a� variety do occur quite often, and in fact, one was occurring that very evening in Toronto. A young man, bundled up in a heavy cotton hoodie despite the oppressive July heat, was curled up in the doorway to an abandoned warehouse on the city’s dilapidated waterfront. He shivered, clutching himself for warmth. He heard footsteps approaching his place of rest for the evening. He wasn’t sure what time it was, having pawned his watch weeks ago to get another hit and maybe some food, but he figured he was always open for business.
He stood and stepped out of the doorway, pulling back his hood to reveal an emaciated face with sunken eyes and blackened teeth, topped with ragged hair long since grown out of control. He saw a group of men, teenagers, approaching him. As they passed, he called out to them.
“H-hey, guys, looking for, for a little company?� He did this when he had to, when the craving for heroin got too bad and he had to get just a little more or he’d die. It wasn’t so bad. Sometimes they only made him suck their dicks and they’d throw a few bills at him and leave. Sometimes, they’d hit him, too, but they usually paid okay for that.
The three teenagers stopped. One of them, a brick on legs, said, “What do you mean, company?� His face was aggressive.
“Well�well, maybe, if you want somebody to go down on you, I could do that, and you’d just give me a little money.� He’d been doing this for several years�but only when necessary, just when he really needed a hit badly… which was more and more often these days. He’d found that the shy street kid personality seemed to attract more johns. “And if you want to do m-more, that’s okay, too. Just… just gotta pay.� He was careful to avoid eye contact.
“Oh,� said the teenager, chuckling. “So you’re one of those street swell guy, right? Well, me and my buddies, we don’t like swell guy.�
The three teenagers crowded him into the doorway where he’d been trying to sleep. They reeked of alcohol. He was afraid. This had happened before as well.
***
Some time later, he was sobbing into a puddle of blood that he’d been coughing up for a little while. He could feel every individual drop of rain as it hit the back of his head. Each one was incredibly heavy, charged with the hate of a world that just seemed to want to destroy him.
He slowly rose to his knees, a position so familiar to him, a position that seemed to define his life. What were they trying to do to him? Wouldn’t it be quicker to just kill him? He rubbed his anus through his oft stained pants. The three teenagers had raped him as a parting gift, but they were only a small part of it. For six years now, since his eleventh goddamn birthday, he’d gotten nothing but shit from the world. He wanted to know why. More than that, he wanted it to stop.
He stood up and saw the huge lake Toronto was built along. A lake so big that you couldn’t see the other side. So big you could lose yourself in it. This was his answer. He wouldn’t put up with it anymore.
He walked to the dockside, right out to the end of the pier. The water lapped at the massive concrete construction a few feet below him. He could just fall in, drift away into the storm tossed lake’s waters and leave it all behind him…
He gazed intently into the fog that hung over the lake, the fog that would swallow him. So intent was he upon his lake that he didn’t hear a new figure walk up behind him.
“That’s not your only option,� said the figure, startling him. He did an instant one eighty and faced the new arrival. He saw a tall man, wearing a long black raincoat flapping dramatically in the storm’s high winds.
“What’re you talking about?� he said, eyes darting about this stranger whose gaze seemed to peer into his mind.
“There are other, better ways of dealing with this,� said the man in the coat. “It doesn’t have to end here.�
“Well why the hell shouldn’t it?� he yelled. “I haven’t got too much to live for, unless sucking dicks is the true path to spiritual enlightenment and long life!�
The man in the coat smiled. “You can leave this life, but you can do it without dying. You can make things better for yourself.�
“What? Rehab?� He laughed through his tears, cackling harshly at this unlikely ray of hope. “I’ve tried it, man, it’s crap. That methadone stuff, the counselling, whatever, it doesn’t work.�
The man in the coat smiled still, infuriatingly. “I can help you. I have… better methods.�
He found himself believing the man in the coat completely. Still, years of cynicism well honed on the hard streets of Toronto made him ask the questions.
“Why should you want to help me? Why do you care about one more street rat junkie?�
“I have my reasons, and there will be a price,� said the man in the coat. He turned his piercing glare out over the water. “But believe me, it’s much better than that.�
He followed the man in the coat’s eyes and spent a few moments looking at the lake being battered by heavy rains. Lances of lightning intermittently illuminated his ruined face consumed in thought.
“Yeah… yeah, okay,� he said. “Let’s try it.�
The man in the coat smiled. “That’s good. You’ve made your all-important first step, Atoga.�
The man in the coat turned around and walked down to the other end of the pier, where a non descript van filled with all the equipment of an ambulance was waiting. Atoga followed him.
