Delivery Boys

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Mr. Heart awoke but kept his eyes closed. Something was wrong. He wasn’t in his bed. Pretending to still be asleep, he felt around with his senses. He was bound to a wooden chair. His hands were tied behind his back. The floor was hard, maybe concrete. The air was cool and musty. He guessed he was in a warehouse or a basement. Neither was a good place for a man in his line of work, but it was better than waking up at the bottom of a river.

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The Crying Shirt

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“I don’t know why I did it.” Those are his first words.

Right now I’m holding the mother. She’s sobbing hard against me. I can feel her warm tears seeping through my button shirt, and I’m thinking, I hope her mascara washes out. I gently rub her back to try and calm her down, but it’s obviously not working. Her hair is really dry, and it’s tickling my nose. I’m trying not to sneeze or laugh, but it’s hard not to do two things at once. The lady’s hair is a dirty blonde color, very messy and unkempt. The smell is okay though. A little coconuty. Nice. The rest of her isn’t though. Occasionally, I get a hot MILF, and I casually make my way down to her ass. But not this one. Mid-forties. Single parent. Fat. The lady mumbles something against my chest, but I can’t hear her through all the phlegm and spit. I continue rocking her saying, “Shhhh…it’s okay…it’ll be okay.”

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The Broken Projector

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Allen froze.  He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

He had stopped at a gas station on his way home.  He was turning to put the nozzle back on the pump when he spotted Louie the Snake coming out of the convenience store.  He looked exactly as Allen had imagined him to be—an elderly, stocky fellow, like a cross between James Caan and Anthony Hopkins, dressed all in black like Johnny Cash.  The only thing out of place was the bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos he was munching on.

Louie’s gaze met Allen’s, and he smiled a nasty, devilish smile.

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How to be a Superhero

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The first few sessions, you ride on top of him. You take control. You rock back and forth on his hard, little dick. Not too aggressive. Not too soft either. You don’t want to overwhelm him, but you don’t want to baby him. The trick is to take it nice and easy. You have to remember that he’s never done this before. You have to remember that you’re an expert. This is your fiftieth, your hundredth, your thousandth time. You’ve lost count. You could do this in your sleep the same way your grandma can bake cookies. The kid you’re banging, the one you’re going to turn into a man, today his name is Patrick. He’s your tenth, your twentieth client. You’ve lost count.

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The Bogeyman

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The Boatright family woke early on Sunday morning to get ready for church.  Mr. Boatright was fixing his tie in front of the bathroom mirror when he heard his wife scream.  He rushed into the adjacent bedroom and found Mrs. Boatright kneeling before the open closet, holding up a pair of gnarled, red shoes.

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Ghost Dreams

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Amy isn’t going to school today.  Through her bedroom window, she watches the yellow school bus pass her house.  She gets out of bed, brushes her teeth, does her makeup, fixes her hair.  She goes downstairs.  The house is empty.  Her parents have already gone to work.  She goes into the kitchen and opens the fridge.  She takes out eggs, ham, onion, green pepper.  She makes an omelet.  She spreads cream cheese on a raisin bagel.  She pours a glass of milk, a glass of orange juice.  She takes a seat at the kitchen table and eats her breakfast in silence, savoring each bite.

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Exonerated

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Charles opened his eyes and saw only blackness.  At first he thought he had gone blind, but he didn’t feel blind, whatever that meant.  The only other time he had experienced darkness this complete and suffocating was when he had gone on a tour of an underground cavern with his family.  The tour guide had turned off all the lights and joked that if you rubbed your pants fast enough, you could see the static electricity.  When the guide flipped the lights back on, he was one of the idiots rubbing his pants.

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Delivery Men

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Above me, Kevin Prescott yelled, “You like that, bitch? Huh? You like that, you little cunt?”

The little cunt replied, probably with her teeth clenched and her feet above her head, “Oh, Mr. Prescott! Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me…”

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The White Whale

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The book lay on my bedside table.  Moby-Dick by Herman Melville.  On the cover was the tail of a white whale as it dove in the water.  The bookmark—like all my bookmarks, it was some useless piece of paper I’d found lying around, probably an expired coupon for canned soup—poked out three-fourths of the way in, exactly where I’d left it five months ago.  And in all that time, I hadn’t touched it.  Not once. As if to prove this, a thin layer of dust blanketed the cover and the surface surrounding it.

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