Delias
07-19-2010, 12:48 AM
I remember being born. It hurt like a motherfucker.
I woke in a hazy fog, and all I could think was that my blood felt warmer than I remembered. That thought didn’t make much sense, so I took it out and examined it again. Yes, there it was- I was bleeding.
I didn’t remember cutting myself, but then I’m not entirely sure how I ended up where I was. My mouth tasted like I’d been rimming a trucker and god how I hoped I hadn’t been. I appeared to be naked and I was quite obviously on someone’s bathroom floor. The tile is what I could best describe as being excessively cold, and my nipples could have cut glass. Not entirely sure if they had, but there was indeed some broken glass, not to mention my blood, the flow of which I was finding increasingly alarming.
I stood up and immediately regretted it. Wherever I was last night, it was quite obviously the wrong place and almost definitely at the wrong time. I took in the scene before me in an attempt to reconnect the series of events that led me here.
The broken and bloody glass was an excellent place to start. It appeared to have started its life cycle as a bottle of Jack Daniel’s number 7 but it didn’t stay there long. Since there was no whiskey on the floor and some of the shards of glass looked like they had been carefully polished and etched with something resembling obsessive artistic intent, it was clear that I had finished the whiskey at some point beforehand.
My blood was starting to drip in a seriously irritating manner that set my head to throbbing even harder. I grabbed the nearest thing I could get my hands on and worked to staunch the crimson flow pouring from my veins in what could best be described as a pecker of a trickle. I sat down and applied pressure with what appeared to be a pair of panties, but I was far more concerned with the etchings on the glass. I carefully picked them up and began to examine the shards.
I wasn’t kidding about the obsessive detail of the work- it looked as if the glass had been carefully knapped like the fucking Indians used to do to make arrowheads and spears. When I held them to the light I could see words chiseled into them with surprising elegance of workmanship.
The first one I picked up said “Fuck.”
The second one was slightly better, but far more incomprehensible. “The Riddler Speaks”, it said. Ok. The Riddler Speaks, Fuck.
The third shard added what I felt was extraordinary clarity- “Too much drinky-drink”.
The other shards shared some the same beautiful workmanship that was so marvelous it made me wonder if it could possibly have been mine. The words certainly seemed likely to have been mine, carefully crafted gibberish was definitely right in my wheelhouse.
The final two shards were my favorites, and I decided that since the sharp edges had been mostly smoothed out I’d take them with me. “A penny for Charon” and “Will row for food”. More gibberish, but I liked the sound of it.
I noticed a pumice stone nearby, smeared with my blood. Discovering the primitive tools of my art, I felt reconnected to my ancestors. Like my drunken mick ancestors, I thought, I really need to vomit. So I did that for a while and eventually blacked out.
When I came to again, I realized I had apparently covered my naked shivering flesh with some towels. As little dignity as I had left climbed out of my soul and left the room, I moaned. My distress must have disturbed other revelers, because I was greeted with a chorus of similar moans, and the occasional snore.
I shook my fist weakly at the sky. “Is that your answer, Old man? I guess you’re a hard case too” I shouted rather softly, in shame, at the sky. Well, ceiling. Same difference. I was pointed up, you know, vertical, facing god’s house.
I groaned again and looked around for my clothes, which I quickly found to be elsewhere. I draped the largest of the towels across me in a toga fashion I felt to be quite dignified and briefly imagined myself wreathed with a crown of laurels. Rome lost a good senator when I was born two thousand years too late. I’d have been at least as good as Caligula’s horse.
Horse… Horse. The thought reverberated through the vault of my mind. Granted, the vault was damaged, the buttressing weakened and the ceiling seemed to be leaking, but it seemed to me that somehow a horse was important to my present circumstances.
I opened the bathroom door as quietly as I could, no more than an inch, and peered out. I saw absolutely nothing at first, but then I faced my fears and opened my eyes. There wasn’t much difference.
This took me a moment to process, but I realized that the lights outside the bathroom were off. I opened the door a bit further and stepped tentatively into the hall. I fidgeted with my towel-toga until my eyes adjusted enough to see the vague shapes of what was either an after-orgy or the scene of a gruesome multiple murder. It was too dark to tell. As I made my way towards where I assumed the light switches would be, my bare feet came down into small pools of various fluids and I suddenly hoped for gruesome murder. The alternative fluids did not bear thinking about for someone whose stomach was in an obviously delicate condition.
I rubbed one of my carved glass shards for luck and absently hoped it was the penny for Charon shard. I just loved the phrasing and wished he could ferry me across this river of possible splooge or blood as if it were the river Styx.
As I reached the end of the room and found that yes, the light switches were there and no, they weren’t currently working, I began to worry. I couldn’t remember a damn thing from the night before but it was apparently far more interesting than I normally like. I generally prefer to do my drinking alone in my basement with a bottle of jergens and some internet porn for company, not in the middle of what was looking more and more like a crime scene. I fumbled with the door which, judging by its heavy construction and deadbolt lock was likely to lead me outside at best, or at worst, hopefully admit some light. If I couldn’t make it outside, I was going to have to once again ford what I was now mentally calling the river bloodsplooge in an effort to reach the bathroom window. Hopefully I was on the ground floor, but beggars can’t be choosers.
By the time I finally managed to get the door unlocked, I could hear a strange sound, a sort of “shuff-whump” sound. I whirled around to look for the zombie that I knew would be sneaking up on me, but then I realized that would be its plan, and immediately whirled the opposite way. Seeing no zombie, I whirled again the other way. By this time I was feeling quite dizzy and my legs apparently decided I needed a bit of a sit-down. As I collapsed against the doorframe, I noticed a figure approaching me by the dim light of the bathroom. It shuffled towards me with a horrible, savage moan… and I think I peed a little.
Two arms reached for me as the zombie continued to shuff-whump its way towards me. I whimpered a little and practiced some of my moves from coward-class. (It’s like karate class but far more realistic for a guy like me.) As I prostrated myself before my attacker in the most pitiful position I could possibly achieve, I began my defensive sobbing technique that I have spent a lifetime developing. I wasn’t sure it would work on a zombie, but I didn’t have a choice- it was the most powerful weapon in my arsenal.
As the zombie reached me and began to lean towards me, I sobbed harder and tried for some pathetic snot bubbles. At the last moment, the zombie tripped and fell completely onto me. I’m not the sort to go groping after the undead, but I noticed she was a most excellently proportioned and female zombie. She moaned that terrible moan as I grabbed her hair to try to pull her away from my throat, but she bit into me without mercy. It was about the time that she grabbed my hands and pressed them to the soft, pillowy flesh of her zombie-tits that I realized my neck wasn’t gushing blood.
This was not the sort of attack I was expecting. I decided to roll with it. I started to sincerely hope this house had been the scene of an orgy and not the gruesome murder… I’m not sure what the penalty is for necrophilia if the zombie comes onto you, but I think it’s probably a felony everywhere but California. As little as I remembered, there was every possibility I was actually in California, but I decided not to chance it and prayed for the orgy scenario. As the she-zomboid began to grind her pelvis desperately against me, I had a moment of clarity in which I realized she was not, in fact, a zombie. This bitch was a succubus, here to steal my seed and breed demon spawn with it! Not with my man-butter, bitch! I flung her off of me, pulled myself to my feet and hurled myself desperately through the door.
This turned out to have been a poor decision, as I tumbled headlong down some stairs. I took a moment to gather my senses and try to comfort my throbbing and stair-damaged erection. My toga must have gotten wrapped around the succubus when I threw her off of me. I desperately hoped it would slow her down long enough for me to escape her evil plan.
Pausing only to vomit again (fuck you, jack daniels), I started running. It must have been just about dawn, because the sun was coming up over the horizon. So, there I was, running naked through the suburbs and trying to figure out where I was. I think it was the third fence I hopped that made me seriously wish I had some clothing or possibly some bubble wrap to protect my danglies. I had no such luck, but as the sun rose higher, I finally realized where I was.
This was my neighborhood, and there was a fucking succubus in my house. Perfect. How the fuck do you get a succubus out of your house? Well, summoning up all my courage (in the form of half a beer I found on a neighbors deck), I headed back towards my house at a much slower, gentler-on-the-genitals sort of pace.
When I reached my house, I shook my head and wondered how the hell I didn’t recognize it before. The crappy two-tone paint job, the blue vespa primarily held together by a will stronger than gravity, the extra long grass, the horse trailer in the front yard.
Err. Wait. I started over. The crappy two-tone paint job, the blue vespa primarily held together by a will stronger than gravity, the extra long grass, the horse trailer in the front yard… Yep, still there. Fairly positive that I don’t own a horse, I cautiously approached the trailer and peered inside. Empty. Whew- I breathed a sigh of relief and went to ransack the shed. My stolen towel was beginning to chafe, so I left it on the lawnmower while I perused my tools, trying to find the one most appropriate to dealing with a succubus. By this time I was sobering up somewhat and realized that if I just gave the succubus my seed, she would probably leave me alone. I mean, I really didn’t care if she bred me some demon children… as long as they did their chores, it would probably be pretty cool. My loins were aching from all the running and a pulled muscle from all the fence-hopping. I gave my groin an inspiring pep-talk.
“Alright boys, here’s the deal… the succubus won’t leave without the baby-gravy. She isn’t like a regular girl, so the last five minutes rule doesn’t apply. You get in, get out, and get off as soon as possible. Pretend we bought her something nice if it helps you care less about her desires. Whatever it takes. You have two minutes, tops, and then we try the crying again. If that doesn’t work, I’ll call a priest. Don’t worry, you’re of legal age so he won’t bother you. Ready? Let’s hit it.”
Opening the door to the house, the full light of day fell upon the succubus. Recognizing that she had taken the form of my wife before passing out on the floor by the front door, I shook the succubus awake and proceeded to give her two minutes of the finest mating a human has done since ever. She growled some sort of demonic sound at me as I scrambled away back towards the safe haven of my bathroom. The river bloodsplooge was even more terrifying on the way back to the bathroom, but with the daylight streaming in the front door, I was able to identify what appeared to be a stolen horse, a pile of cash, and a drunken midget lying across my sister-in-law.
I was afraid to get too close, but it looked like the horse’s name was Riddler. On closer inspection, the midget shape began to resolve itself into more of a jockey shape. I shook my head to clear my thoughts as I finally began to understand what was going on here.
It was now apparent that my filthy whore sister-in-law stole a midget and a horse for some kind of fucked up threeway. It was also apparent that the succubus had bribed her for her assistance in taking the place of my wife with a huge pile of cash. She must have gotten me drunk to try to fuck me before selling me to the succubus. I fucking hate that bitch. I closed the bathroom door and went back to sleep amidst my blood and broken glass, blessing the safety of my sanctuary.
When next I awoke, I officially quit drinking.
I woke in a hazy fog, and all I could think was that my blood felt warmer than I remembered. That thought didn’t make much sense, so I took it out and examined it again. Yes, there it was- I was bleeding.
I didn’t remember cutting myself, but then I’m not entirely sure how I ended up where I was. My mouth tasted like I’d been rimming a trucker and god how I hoped I hadn’t been. I appeared to be naked and I was quite obviously on someone’s bathroom floor. The tile is what I could best describe as being excessively cold, and my nipples could have cut glass. Not entirely sure if they had, but there was indeed some broken glass, not to mention my blood, the flow of which I was finding increasingly alarming.
I stood up and immediately regretted it. Wherever I was last night, it was quite obviously the wrong place and almost definitely at the wrong time. I took in the scene before me in an attempt to reconnect the series of events that led me here.
The broken and bloody glass was an excellent place to start. It appeared to have started its life cycle as a bottle of Jack Daniel’s number 7 but it didn’t stay there long. Since there was no whiskey on the floor and some of the shards of glass looked like they had been carefully polished and etched with something resembling obsessive artistic intent, it was clear that I had finished the whiskey at some point beforehand.
My blood was starting to drip in a seriously irritating manner that set my head to throbbing even harder. I grabbed the nearest thing I could get my hands on and worked to staunch the crimson flow pouring from my veins in what could best be described as a pecker of a trickle. I sat down and applied pressure with what appeared to be a pair of panties, but I was far more concerned with the etchings on the glass. I carefully picked them up and began to examine the shards.
I wasn’t kidding about the obsessive detail of the work- it looked as if the glass had been carefully knapped like the fucking Indians used to do to make arrowheads and spears. When I held them to the light I could see words chiseled into them with surprising elegance of workmanship.
The first one I picked up said “Fuck.”
The second one was slightly better, but far more incomprehensible. “The Riddler Speaks”, it said. Ok. The Riddler Speaks, Fuck.
The third shard added what I felt was extraordinary clarity- “Too much drinky-drink”.
The other shards shared some the same beautiful workmanship that was so marvelous it made me wonder if it could possibly have been mine. The words certainly seemed likely to have been mine, carefully crafted gibberish was definitely right in my wheelhouse.
The final two shards were my favorites, and I decided that since the sharp edges had been mostly smoothed out I’d take them with me. “A penny for Charon” and “Will row for food”. More gibberish, but I liked the sound of it.
I noticed a pumice stone nearby, smeared with my blood. Discovering the primitive tools of my art, I felt reconnected to my ancestors. Like my drunken mick ancestors, I thought, I really need to vomit. So I did that for a while and eventually blacked out.
When I came to again, I realized I had apparently covered my naked shivering flesh with some towels. As little dignity as I had left climbed out of my soul and left the room, I moaned. My distress must have disturbed other revelers, because I was greeted with a chorus of similar moans, and the occasional snore.
I shook my fist weakly at the sky. “Is that your answer, Old man? I guess you’re a hard case too” I shouted rather softly, in shame, at the sky. Well, ceiling. Same difference. I was pointed up, you know, vertical, facing god’s house.
I groaned again and looked around for my clothes, which I quickly found to be elsewhere. I draped the largest of the towels across me in a toga fashion I felt to be quite dignified and briefly imagined myself wreathed with a crown of laurels. Rome lost a good senator when I was born two thousand years too late. I’d have been at least as good as Caligula’s horse.
Horse… Horse. The thought reverberated through the vault of my mind. Granted, the vault was damaged, the buttressing weakened and the ceiling seemed to be leaking, but it seemed to me that somehow a horse was important to my present circumstances.
I opened the bathroom door as quietly as I could, no more than an inch, and peered out. I saw absolutely nothing at first, but then I faced my fears and opened my eyes. There wasn’t much difference.
This took me a moment to process, but I realized that the lights outside the bathroom were off. I opened the door a bit further and stepped tentatively into the hall. I fidgeted with my towel-toga until my eyes adjusted enough to see the vague shapes of what was either an after-orgy or the scene of a gruesome multiple murder. It was too dark to tell. As I made my way towards where I assumed the light switches would be, my bare feet came down into small pools of various fluids and I suddenly hoped for gruesome murder. The alternative fluids did not bear thinking about for someone whose stomach was in an obviously delicate condition.
I rubbed one of my carved glass shards for luck and absently hoped it was the penny for Charon shard. I just loved the phrasing and wished he could ferry me across this river of possible splooge or blood as if it were the river Styx.
As I reached the end of the room and found that yes, the light switches were there and no, they weren’t currently working, I began to worry. I couldn’t remember a damn thing from the night before but it was apparently far more interesting than I normally like. I generally prefer to do my drinking alone in my basement with a bottle of jergens and some internet porn for company, not in the middle of what was looking more and more like a crime scene. I fumbled with the door which, judging by its heavy construction and deadbolt lock was likely to lead me outside at best, or at worst, hopefully admit some light. If I couldn’t make it outside, I was going to have to once again ford what I was now mentally calling the river bloodsplooge in an effort to reach the bathroom window. Hopefully I was on the ground floor, but beggars can’t be choosers.
By the time I finally managed to get the door unlocked, I could hear a strange sound, a sort of “shuff-whump” sound. I whirled around to look for the zombie that I knew would be sneaking up on me, but then I realized that would be its plan, and immediately whirled the opposite way. Seeing no zombie, I whirled again the other way. By this time I was feeling quite dizzy and my legs apparently decided I needed a bit of a sit-down. As I collapsed against the doorframe, I noticed a figure approaching me by the dim light of the bathroom. It shuffled towards me with a horrible, savage moan… and I think I peed a little.
Two arms reached for me as the zombie continued to shuff-whump its way towards me. I whimpered a little and practiced some of my moves from coward-class. (It’s like karate class but far more realistic for a guy like me.) As I prostrated myself before my attacker in the most pitiful position I could possibly achieve, I began my defensive sobbing technique that I have spent a lifetime developing. I wasn’t sure it would work on a zombie, but I didn’t have a choice- it was the most powerful weapon in my arsenal.
As the zombie reached me and began to lean towards me, I sobbed harder and tried for some pathetic snot bubbles. At the last moment, the zombie tripped and fell completely onto me. I’m not the sort to go groping after the undead, but I noticed she was a most excellently proportioned and female zombie. She moaned that terrible moan as I grabbed her hair to try to pull her away from my throat, but she bit into me without mercy. It was about the time that she grabbed my hands and pressed them to the soft, pillowy flesh of her zombie-tits that I realized my neck wasn’t gushing blood.
This was not the sort of attack I was expecting. I decided to roll with it. I started to sincerely hope this house had been the scene of an orgy and not the gruesome murder… I’m not sure what the penalty is for necrophilia if the zombie comes onto you, but I think it’s probably a felony everywhere but California. As little as I remembered, there was every possibility I was actually in California, but I decided not to chance it and prayed for the orgy scenario. As the she-zomboid began to grind her pelvis desperately against me, I had a moment of clarity in which I realized she was not, in fact, a zombie. This bitch was a succubus, here to steal my seed and breed demon spawn with it! Not with my man-butter, bitch! I flung her off of me, pulled myself to my feet and hurled myself desperately through the door.
This turned out to have been a poor decision, as I tumbled headlong down some stairs. I took a moment to gather my senses and try to comfort my throbbing and stair-damaged erection. My toga must have gotten wrapped around the succubus when I threw her off of me. I desperately hoped it would slow her down long enough for me to escape her evil plan.
Pausing only to vomit again (fuck you, jack daniels), I started running. It must have been just about dawn, because the sun was coming up over the horizon. So, there I was, running naked through the suburbs and trying to figure out where I was. I think it was the third fence I hopped that made me seriously wish I had some clothing or possibly some bubble wrap to protect my danglies. I had no such luck, but as the sun rose higher, I finally realized where I was.
This was my neighborhood, and there was a fucking succubus in my house. Perfect. How the fuck do you get a succubus out of your house? Well, summoning up all my courage (in the form of half a beer I found on a neighbors deck), I headed back towards my house at a much slower, gentler-on-the-genitals sort of pace.
When I reached my house, I shook my head and wondered how the hell I didn’t recognize it before. The crappy two-tone paint job, the blue vespa primarily held together by a will stronger than gravity, the extra long grass, the horse trailer in the front yard.
Err. Wait. I started over. The crappy two-tone paint job, the blue vespa primarily held together by a will stronger than gravity, the extra long grass, the horse trailer in the front yard… Yep, still there. Fairly positive that I don’t own a horse, I cautiously approached the trailer and peered inside. Empty. Whew- I breathed a sigh of relief and went to ransack the shed. My stolen towel was beginning to chafe, so I left it on the lawnmower while I perused my tools, trying to find the one most appropriate to dealing with a succubus. By this time I was sobering up somewhat and realized that if I just gave the succubus my seed, she would probably leave me alone. I mean, I really didn’t care if she bred me some demon children… as long as they did their chores, it would probably be pretty cool. My loins were aching from all the running and a pulled muscle from all the fence-hopping. I gave my groin an inspiring pep-talk.
“Alright boys, here’s the deal… the succubus won’t leave without the baby-gravy. She isn’t like a regular girl, so the last five minutes rule doesn’t apply. You get in, get out, and get off as soon as possible. Pretend we bought her something nice if it helps you care less about her desires. Whatever it takes. You have two minutes, tops, and then we try the crying again. If that doesn’t work, I’ll call a priest. Don’t worry, you’re of legal age so he won’t bother you. Ready? Let’s hit it.”
Opening the door to the house, the full light of day fell upon the succubus. Recognizing that she had taken the form of my wife before passing out on the floor by the front door, I shook the succubus awake and proceeded to give her two minutes of the finest mating a human has done since ever. She growled some sort of demonic sound at me as I scrambled away back towards the safe haven of my bathroom. The river bloodsplooge was even more terrifying on the way back to the bathroom, but with the daylight streaming in the front door, I was able to identify what appeared to be a stolen horse, a pile of cash, and a drunken midget lying across my sister-in-law.
I was afraid to get too close, but it looked like the horse’s name was Riddler. On closer inspection, the midget shape began to resolve itself into more of a jockey shape. I shook my head to clear my thoughts as I finally began to understand what was going on here.
It was now apparent that my filthy whore sister-in-law stole a midget and a horse for some kind of fucked up threeway. It was also apparent that the succubus had bribed her for her assistance in taking the place of my wife with a huge pile of cash. She must have gotten me drunk to try to fuck me before selling me to the succubus. I fucking hate that bitch. I closed the bathroom door and went back to sleep amidst my blood and broken glass, blessing the safety of my sanctuary.
When next I awoke, I officially quit drinking.