DARWINIAN // Wonky Vision

So, I’m waiting at the lights for the little green man to stutter. That’ll be my signal to cross.

I’m late for the bus again, and my back is sloughing into the seat of my pants via a river of sweat. Sizzling in this heat and humidity like a piece of rump steak is no fun, and the light is searing its bad self into every cranny of my awareness so there’s nothing but blank canvas everywhere I look. Yup, I’m a squinting Mr Magoo at the Seeing Eye Olympics. On the face of the sun. Being spit roasted by Satan himself. Or I may as well be. Summer sure loves to make me its inelegant, sweaty bitch.

I can barely make out the couple in front of me. They happen, as it turns out, to be making out—I can make that much out. Oh, hang on, they’re not actually making out. They’re just holding hands, sharing adoration and kisses despite the sun’s brutal, disapproving efforts. How sweet! I can’t help but smile. Not that you’d know it was a smile. It’s more like a scrunched up, mortified towel really—one that’s been used to exfoliate Donald Trump’s junk. Well, abused more like.

We’re hearing the green man now, so we all step out onto the road. The couple are still hand-in-hand, swinging their arms in time with the endearing skip in their gaits and hearts. We’re halfway across when a horrible realisation hits me. It’s two men! Shit! TWO MEN! I immediately begin to panic. The squinting has to stop. Like. Now. What if they see my expression—the grimacey scrunch that reads nothing like a smile—and come to the conclusion that I’m hating on their public display of affection? God almighty!

I try to unsquint as much as I humanly can, only to be blinded even more. Jesus! Fuck! The pain! The light is so fucking aggressive… and, holy fuck, the tears! My face is contorting all over the place like an epileptic cow with a cattle prod up its arse. It’s a wonder I’m not staggering into oncoming traffic. Still, I’m certain there’ll somehow be blood and recriminations next.

We reach the other side, and it’s only at that point when I realise something. Not only has this couple failed to notice my wank-walk of over the top social maladjustment, they clearly wouldn’t give a damn even if they did. They’re so besotted with one another, and so at ease within themselves and their immediate surroundings that… well, so what if I existed? Hell, it’s not even remotely about me. Or about what I think, for good or ill.

I’m just lucky to have witnessed this unabashed display of affection without getting smeared up the road by a Mack Truck—you know, like red jam over toast. Gaydom’s so normal that I should be considering it a bore really, not something to be noticed and having judgements formed about. Yup, nothing to see here. Just two folks very much in love. All’s right with the world.

And that’s enough for now.

 

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2018

CALIXIAN // Ranting Up the Wazoo

I am in a crappy mood. That’s why I’ve decided to kill Darwin this very day. Somehow. And quirkily.

I’m wandering around in the shed when I stumble upon a dusty, old megaphone. This could be exactly what I need! “Darwin, baby, come here! I have something for you.” I can barely contain my glee.

Darwin’s tumbled head pops in at the door. He’s looking at me with curiosity. It’s definitely one of his best traits. He’s as curious as a kitten. I crook my finger at him, beckoning him closer. Darwin enters the shed.

I take my time. I want to savor the pleasure. I smear half a bottle of grease over Darwin’s mop then meticulously comb it back. Then I pick the nastiest tie I can find from a dingy, old wardrobe in the corner of the shed. Yes, the orange tie with the big blue hot-dogs. That should do it.

Darwin twists and turns before the mirror on the wardrobe door, giggling. He obviously thinks it’s a funny role-playing game. Perhaps he’s now imagining that I’ll put on a nurse’s costume, or dress like Harley Quinn, or like a big violet papulose lobster. Frankly, I neither know nor care what this pervert daydreams about.

I take another look at him. Darwin is smiling like a brewer’s horse. He’s shining like a spit-and-polished samovar. I don’t recall him ever being this happy, and certainly not since that time he won ten measly greens in bingo. I feel something approaching a light pang of conscience, but I shake it off. I have to finish this game.

I need a finishing touch. I survey the shed interior before noticing a shabby leather suitcase in another corner. Perfect! Feeling like real Pygmalion, I thrust it into Darwin’s hand and take a step back to admire my handiwork for a moment. It’s unbelievable but Darwin looks even worse than he usually does. Is that even possible? It seems that, yes, it is.

Darwin shoots me a questioning look, waiting for whatever’s next. I push a megaphone into his arms, give him a wink in return, then abruptly push him outside. I slam the door. Right before his nose. Take that!

Darwin knocks insistently, begging to be let in, but not for too long. Curiosity killed the cat, I suppose. I know that a protest movement on the next street over will soon catch his attention. And I know that he always jumps at the chance to rant about his favorite topics, especially now that he has the megaphone and some sympathetic listeners around.

There’s a knock at the door.

Darwin’s tumbled head pops into my bedroom. I barely have time to minimize my window.

“Calix, dinner’s ready. Come and get it!”

“Sure.”

By the time I’m leaving the bedroom, the Sim Darwin is standing on the suitcase, shouting frothily into the megaphone. “Death is supposed to be the last, great refuge for troubled minds!” he squawks. “From ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and into the big black!” His face is flushed. The tie hung loose. Darwin is as cute and convincing as Lenin on the armored car in 1917.

Meanwhile, the Grim Reaper stands just around a nearby corner, wry faced and skittishly rubbing a scythe. He doesn’t like anyone ranting about death too much, you know.

I step into the kitchen and give Darwin the biggest smile I can muster.

“What do we have for dinner?”

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2018

THE ABCs OF A PECULIAR LIFE // B is for Biff & Bugalugs

Tonight should have been a perfect ten, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t even a seven. More like a three or four really. Not even the brunette with the big tits and long neck from the finest escort agency in the land could change that. She could gob him all she liked but it wasn’t going to make a scrap of difference.

How the hell had it come to this? In a fit of anger, Joe Faust slammed his expensive, gold-tipped pen on the table and shoved the escort’s head aside. It was unbelievable that his business, his pet project, should be falling quicker than a row of dominoes in a children’s bouncy fun castle!

He grabbed his cell phone and hit ‘Redial’. The bastard wasn’t picking up or responding to Faust’s many texts pleading for an audience. He should never have made that deal with such a shady character, especially one that he had yet speak with face-to-face. Faust should have known that he’d get screwed over. God damn it!

Suddenly, there was a click. A suave Voice at the other end calmly said, “I’m all ears.”

Faust blinked in surprise. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to get you for the last three days!” He didn’t bother to hide his annoyance and agitation. The time for subtle hints had passed. Shit was about to get real, and a bit of frank talk was what was needed right now.

He felt something closing around his cock again. Faust looked down. “Who the hell do you think you are?!” he bellowed, half to her and half to the Voice. “Day and night I’ve been calling!” He kicked at the escort until she crawled away on all fours to cower between the display prams.

“Remind me, Bugalugs,” said the Voice. “Who are you?”

“You know exactly who the fuck I am!” exploded Faust. “I’m the guy who’s going to bury you unless things change around here!”

There was a slight pause. “Careful,” came a menacing growl.

Faust softened his tone. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m neck deep in shit right now, and I need a bail out.”

“So,” repeated the Voice. “Who are you?”

What? Was he really going to do this now? Was the Voice really going to act dumb and play out this charade? Faust took a deep, shuddering breath, and though he was sitting down he found himself having to lean against the desk for support. He swallowed hard, harnessed his willpower, and said in an almost normal tone, “I’m Joe Faust. I’m the Pram Lord.”

The Voice chuckled. “I’m listening, Bugalugs. What’s your wish this time?” Faust squeezed his eyes shut then blinked them open again. Had the Voice actually chuckled or had it been interference on the line? This call was already doing his head in.

“Do you wish for all women to give birth to only triplets? Do you wish for pregnancy to last a mere two months, thus compelling new mothers to buy new prams before the old ones become vacant?” The Voice went on. “Do you wish to start a fashion for single-use prams?”

Faust kept silent. He was confused. Was it possible? And then the Voice guffawed, causing him to wince. So, it obviously wasn’t interference. He was being made a fool of.

“No, Bugalugs. You can be as materialistic as you wish, but I’m not God. I’m only a modest wish master.”

Faust could feel the rage building.

“A modest little advertising company here or some horrible weather there—this is what lies within my purview.”

That’s it. Faust was going to have to fly off the handle. “I need cash, you bastard, not fucking sleet! Instead of reaming me six ways from Sunday, you could get off your fat otherwordly arse and get me what I actually fucking need, you fucking prick!”

There was a longer pause. Oh, shit. He’d really done it now…

“Do you wish to break the contract?” The Voice was devastatingly polite… and so very cold. “Keep in mind that Mephistopheles Enterprises doesn’t refund prepayments.”

Faust was opening and closing his mouth like a hooked guppy fish. The words wouldn’t come.

“I suppose there is one wish I could make for you… You can consider this a cancellation fee from Mephistopheles Enterprises.” The Voice was downright icy now. “From now until doomsday, you will have only cash in your pockets.”

Something clicked loudly and the line went dead. And then there was another sound. A loud clinking sound. Then another. And another…

Joe Faust woke with a start. A prim and proper lady dressed in black had tossed some coins into an alms box. Was it… Hey! It was in his hand! Did the alms box belong to him? Still reeling in a fog of disbelief, he leaned forward to inspect it. His fingers were gingerly nudging the coins around the edges of the box when he noticed someone else approaching. Who was this now?

Oh my god. It was a brunette with big tits and a long neck. Was she… lactating? There were two ginormous, screaming baby giraffes in the pram she was pushing — a competitor’s brand. Faust tried to recall where he had seen her before, and then she turned for a moment and accidentally biffed him in the ankle with her pram.

Faust grimaced. “Hey! Watch it, sleeper!”

She gave him a sideways glance. “Oh, put a sock in it, Bugalugs. Hire some other prostitute and be rude to her!”

And just as a look of recognition flashed across Joe Faust’s face, she winked and moved on. Stunned, he sat there opening and closing his mouth like a guppy fish, but she had long since vanished over the horizon, never to be seen again.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2017

MMORPB // Tati & Tony in Raiders of the Lost Snark Part Three (Moderately Multiplayer Online Role Playing Book 18+)

or: EPISODE 3 // Where Tati Gives Tony a Fungus Face

 

In our previous episode, Tati and Tony met at the Greater Cachalot Mall in international waters. As they nitpicked at one another, a mysterious man in black turned up and quietly made a beeline for Tony’s suitcases…

Tati sighed. “Okey dokey. Let’s go to reception. I’m dying to take a shower.” She pulled a map from her pants pocket and unfolded it over a nearby café table.

“Why couldn’t we have met in front of the hotel itself?” asked Tony, scratching the top of his head with a quizzical look.

“Conspiracy!”

“Conspiracy?” Tony blinked in confusion.

After ascertaining the most confusing and circuitous route to the hotel, Tati rummaged through her backpack and withdrew a couple of items. “Now, take this moustache and cap. No one should recognize you!”

Tony took one of the moustaches from her hand and put on the green cap. “But I already have a moustache!”

“It doesn’t matter. Stick that one over it.”

Tony blinked slowly at his reflection in a nearby store window showcase while Tati put on a moustache of her own, and a red cap too. “Seriously, we look like the Mario Bros.” She giggled at Tony’s comment. He had two moustaches on his face, and he did rather look like a famous, portly, videogame plumber’s brother.

“Does this make me Mario?”

Tony blushed. “A female Mario, yes.”

Tati folded up the map and stowed it away. “Okay, you can stop scratching your mushrooms, brother. Let’s a go!”

Rolling his eyes, Tony turned to retrieve his suitcases…

“What th—?”

 

Catch other episodes in this series:
THE PILOT // Where Tati Makes Tony Blush
EPISODE 2 // Where Tati Makes Tony Choke

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2018

Testing, Part #2 (Fragment #015)

It was like talking to a brick wall. I elevated my voice slightly.

“Hey, four-eyes!”

Yuck. Not only is he blind, he’s deaf too… I was considering poking him with a ruler when I heard a semi-cough right above me. Again.

Any questions, young lady?”

“No, Sir.”

Question 2a: Define a metrical foot used in the following poem.

He had forty-two boxes, all carefully packed,
With his name painted clearly on each:
But, since he omitted to mention the fact,
They were all left behind on the beach.

The loss of his clothes hardly mattered, because
He had seven coats on when he came,
With three pair of boots—but the worst of it was,
He had wholly forgotten his name.

He would answer to “Hi!” or to any loud cry,
Such as “Fry me!” or “Fritter my wig!”
To “What-you-may-call-um!” or “What-was-his-name!”
But especially “Thing-um-a-jig!”

1) Trochee
2) Iamb
3) Anapaest
4) Dactyl

Question 3a: What isn’t a forme fixe?

1) Qasida
2) Glosa
3) Sequence
4) Tanaga

I looked around helplessly. No help was within reach. Well… if plan A doesn’t work out then I have to use plan B. So, I gave a shit about that, and began to select answers at random.

The blank space below question 1a was very much in evidence, and my inner perfectionist demanded satisfaction. I knew it was better not to argue as this thought would be like a pebble in my shoe—it would hinder and annoy. I wrote something like, “Prompt at five o’clock, I busted a snaplock, and walked around town in a candy-striped nightgown.”

Then I hesitated over where an adverb of time should be placed in an English sentence. Damn. At the start? At the end? Without philosophizing, I repeated the first line at the end. If need be, I could say that I was nervous and forgot to cross out the wrong line.

With a feeling of satisfaction at a job well done, I turned in my paper and left the amphitheater. I felt a roaring hunger.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2017