Posted by
• 11.30.11 07:00 am

5 AM passed and the night bade its farewell with an embarrassed whisper.

5 AM passed and the night bade its farewell with an embarrassed whisper. The sun spilled molten rays down onto the tarred rooftops of the city’s brown bricks, prancing along like gingerbread men, cinnamon sprinkles shimmering. We were supposed to go big-time that year with the arrival of the NFL expansion Jaguars, but the heat wave that had set upon Jacksonville was continuing into a twelfth day. It was too hot for anyone to care.

I had worked the night shift in Orange Park taking blasts of sour semen across my bow and the ramrods of hate-filled men up ’neath my poop deck. As usual, I finished up at the diner with toast and eggs before administering myself six milligrams of Clonazepam. Satisfied, I stepped back out into the sun and lumbered down the decaying pavement toward my building like a desiccated slug having come in contact with garden pellets. I grimaced as my pig-leather whoring costume chaffed mercilessly against my cum-dried thighs.

Through the leprous haze that hung over town, occasional shurikens of white light struck my naked eyes, adding to the sum of torments with which life presented me. I turned my head toward the local home for those of special need. Through the eyes of the building I had become ensnared in the gaze of a young Mongoloid. A slow arm rose to wave, the hand atop it flopped wildly like a carp freshly plucked from a muddy creek. The child grinned, grim news foretold.

I mounted the steps to my apartment and turned my back on the infant morn. I bequeathed to it an emission. The hot gas dissipated into the street, welcome among its constituency in the city’s sick perfume. With this, the state of my ass filled my mind. The nature of my work made great demand of its ventricular nature, and it glowed a most brilliant red.

Clasping an iron railing, I heaved my mammoth frame up the stairs toward my apartment. Suddenly from the shadows a figure emerged as if it were a native of the darkness itself. I rubbed my eyes and refocused. It was Garry my neighbor: “Still working?” he asked, exposing his oily penis. I reasoned that the next day’s cigarettes and drink would be free if I were to take one last load. I think most—including those not involved specifically in street work—have probably rationalized questionable decisions in a similar way at some point in their lives. Perhaps it is universal.

Farting again, I slunk to my knees. My face bravely held the expression of a stunned cow. Garry began to daub his musty scrotum against my face. He molded it into the craters that housed my eyes and patted his shaft on my forehead and about my ears before engaging my wet gob. Soon my mouth flooded as he jerked, shuddered and then vanished back into the darkness as if it had eaten him.


I unzipped and sprawled about my bed. Springs near death groaned beneath. I lit a cigarette and released a stream of blue vapor into the air. As I closed my eyes, I felt my breakfast begin to erode within me and my bowels filled with diarrhea. I had 30 seconds at most. I ran to the toilet and unleashed a torrent of gastric acid into the basin. The lesions that lined my colon’s membranous walls began to scream out as if in concert; a terrific crescendo of torture emanated from my ass. I began to cry.

When one sobs gently it is often the mark of spiritual despair. I thought wistfully of my youth. I remembered birthday candles. I remembered Ms. Ruddlesticks writing out the ABCs on her chalkboard. I remembered the sensation of being loved: I had once been someone’s child. With great strain I tried to recall exactly when I had made my transition, but the memories would not come. I pulled the lever and my waste disappeared fan-like. The drain gurgled and the pipes within the walls rattled with cruel applause.


Trembling fingers searched the knobs aside my clock radio. I thought that this might be the day that I would finally make my decision to go. But then the exuberant classic “Life is Life” cut through the sound of my despair:

And you call when it’s over
You call it should last
Every minute of the future
Is a memory of the past
‘Cause we all gave the power
We all gave the best

When everyone gave everything
And every song everybody sings
Life is life

Hearing the tune anew, it occurred to me that perhaps Opus implicitly disagreed with Bacon’s famous dictum that “chiefly the mold of a man’s fortune is in his own hands.” Sleep came over me like a fog.


  1. Goat My Sampson says:

    I finally came around, “a terrific crescendo of torture emanated from my ass.” But other than that, yeah, this describes Jacksonville better than I’ve come across. Shit, all of Florida for that matter.

  2. Dick says:

    1) this is obviously a guy

    2) judging by yr writing, you’d best stick to sucking cock.

  3. schmenge says:


    All the penises in Florida are oily?

  4. pfft says:

    just awful. Stop trying so fucking hard!

  5. pfft says:

    ‘turned my back on the infant morn’. MORN? seriously

  6. Steve Harvey says:

    Find a lonely editor and barter. Unless this is a caricature of MFA writing workshop stuff, in which case: nailed it.

  7. Goat My Sampson says:

    @schmenge yes. well… at least my uncle’s and mine are. my dad never “loved” me so i’m not sure about him.

  8. Jucifer says:

    I couldn’t get past the second paragraph, such hacky drivel.

  9. Butt Nothing says:

    All that diarrhea and ass talk makes me want this girl more than life itself.

  10. Drippy Dog Dix and Cum Bubbles or Something says:

    The black and white text poured from my keyboard like ebony boners hitting an ivory street. No amount of feathered words would permit my adolescent predisposition to convey the sheer elemental discomfort i felt while reading this processed lunch meat of a post.


  11. Drippy Dog Dix and Cum Bubbles or Something says:

    I gazed lazily up at my recent comment as the mornings first rays irradiated the back of my still cloistered blinds. The realization of the profound pleasure i felt while expounding like a malevolent monk of literal injustice consumed my better judgment penitent. The fall have a new album and its the fall now and i hope i dont fall down when i ooze out of this bed.


  12. Drippy Dog Dix and Cum Bubbles or Something says:

    Oi, cried my better judgement. Move on fine lad the day grows short. Nay, replied my charcoal soul, this calling of sneer is too dear to me. The clatter of the keyboard was a typhoon of discreet click and clack sounds like from those movies with old typewriters and people talking but without the people talking. Also there is no heavy cloud of smoke hanging around and Im picking my nose where the latter thing in this sentence wouldn’t have been shown in those movie scenes generally since nose picking is socially taboo ’round these here crimson areas.


  13. ONLYMERK! says:

    shurikens of white light!

    ninja climbing claws of breakfast.

    kusarigama of toiletries.

    blowguns of heatwave.

    katana of my loins.

  14. The Purple Project says:

    Like flaming globes of Sigmond! Flaming globes of Sigmond!

  15. Dynamo says:

    I should by crying, but I just can’t not dance to that tune…

  16. iwontslowdown(2) says:

    I’m surprised anyone got past the 1st sentence. Way to stick with it!

  17. narcos says:

    since when did this place becoming a publishing house for unworkshopped mfa fiction?

  18. Randy Lahey says:

    Scene Report, Jacksonville: It’s an hour from Gainesville.

  19. reo speedwagon in converse says:

    I hope the ‘author’ is better at giving head than describing it. Dross.

  20. wtf says:

    i lol’d

  21. therapist response says:

    Yikes! Relax already writer, your’e spending way too much energy on “your voice” in this writing. The fucking “story” is being smothering by your “look at me” pillow!
    You’ve got an audience,want to be interested in what you have to say.Trust the story.

  22. blah says:

    Reading these comments, methinks there are a few closeted MFAs protesting too much. Hey, compared to the Moogfest story, this was War and Peace.

  23. Dion and the Smellmonts says:

    Agree with “blah” on this one. Yes, the prose is purple and the writer maybe needs to take a couple deep breaths and put the thesaurus away, but I’ll take this over another story by Patrick K. whimpering about getting beaten up or scared by foreigners.

  24. Donald Sharthelme says:

    All of this buffoonery was worth it for “ebony boners hitting an ivory street.”

    Fuck Florida.

  25. Ur Dad Had You says:

    Post photos of your whore cooch. I fucking get off to prostitutes. Go on, save the story. Give us pics.

  26. Anonymous says:

    What the fuck does this have to do with anywhere?

  27. Reading Comprehension 101 says:

    ^^^ Blow my fucking brains out with a motherfucking .50-caliber Desert Eagle if I’m fucking wrong, but fuck, for fuck’s sake, I could have sworn I saw the word “Jacksonville” in the first paragraph.

  28. Miss universe says:

    All these comments reemphasize Gavin’s point about Americans hating big words. It seems we all know what they mean but still think they sound pompous and faggy? I want to know why this is.

  29. Sergeant Joe Bowers says:

    “Unaware of what year it was, Joe wandered the streets desperate for help. But the English language had deteriorated into a hybrid of hillbilly, Valley Girl, inner-city slang and various grunts. Joe was able to understand them, but when he spoke in an ordinary voice he sounded pompous and faggy to them.”


  30. narcos says:

    i don’t think any of us have a problem with “big words.” i have a problem when they are used in a clumsy, scattershot fashion. read the first fucking sentence of this article and then explain to me what it means. seriously.

  31. Goat Sampson says:

    It’s a perception thing. I thought the article was pretty funny. The whiners took this the complete wrong way like it was some really serious article. I mean come on, “Farting again, I slunk to my knees.” If that doesn’t give it away…

  32. @drippy dog dix says:

    i lawld hard. it was a lawl that rocked my etiolated body, each guffaw threatening to break my scoliotic spine atwain.

  33. crikcrawler says:

    big words good commenters critiques double plus good

  34. Dynamo says:


    I think it means that the moon that presides over Jacksonville nights isn’t proud of doing so.

  35. Anonymous says:

    i like what you’re going for, but when trying to write from a whore’s perspective, it might help if your wrote like a whore…my suspension of disbelief was maintained for all of 3.5 sentences. it didn’t work, fella, but keep trying :)

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