I am a book with the front pages torn from its spin. Approaching elderly women and asking if they are my mother.

They push me away and I say, “Home?”

I have no fight left and the bottoms of my feet are dirty, water and mud mixed with blood and torn skin.

He pushed me and asked if I felt empowered.

I pray to God and ask for help. Help me, I didn’t mean for this to happen. Please, there has been a mistake.

But In a familiar silence, God does not answer. My face hot and the tears streaming down, offering no relief.

Short Story #32

Stan came in for a follow up. As a speech pathologist, it’s quite routine for us to do an audio recording. As I recorded, Stan asked me if I could play back what I recorded of him. His jaw slackened as I played back the recording. He then asked me if I could record the voices in his head. I said no.

A Summer Lesson

It’s nearly fall and I still have fruit flies hovering over my sink, after an old purpling head of garlic which I had sunk some two weeks ago. My sink is full and disgusting, engorged by water and decomposing fluid and fluiding solids. And generation after brief generation is provoked, spurred by the aromatic promise, shreds of garlic flesh that have come dislodged from the watery strata of plates and spoons and floated to the surface.
The ranks of flies continue to swell to the greatest these sorry resources will allow- the still shallow water in my sink, with the remains of old dinners, saturated bread that hangs on the surface, puffy and white, swirling in vinegared wine. The flies dive one by one. Only later do their minute hulls float to the surface, empty casks wasted on the stainless steel shore. This boomtown is ready to collapse.
It’s nearly fall and I’m still learning a summer lesson.

Grey Lady

The wildest beach we knew was called Grey Lady, because in those days women were portrayed with hair flowing in the wind, completely nude, nipples a soft pink.  In those days wildness was synonymous with purity, because those who were not understood were left alone.

The ocean comes crashing up against clay cliffs, chewing stones and spitting out sand that flows through fingers effortlessly as water. Grey Lady, scorning the solid land, hoping to transform what we know to something we can’t grasp.

We are taught that land supports our weight, but when the child approaches the cliff’s ledge to peer at the ocean, his mother pulls him back towards her sandy skirts.

Grey Lady is not a mother. She appears on the sands during dusk, when dunes bristle with cold and the moon rises past the brink of sand and sky, refracted in the tension of her glass-like face. Rising water, the memory of waves being pushed and pulled by the moon’s force, Grey Lady, a woman who cannot possess because she is forever giving all she owns to the tides.

When we were young, our mother took us to this beach to teach us not to drown. Like all mothers, she knew the ocean would try to take us, even as we grew up far away from the sands. My brother and I found the Lady, and we followed her, bodies twisting and feet stuck in the wet sand, digging holes that would fill back up with water, reminding us that the ocean is everywhere.

Under the water it is cold and too murky to see my fingers as they brush through, lighter than they’ve ever been. It is possible to forget about myself as my bathing suit disappears beneath the sparkling mica and sand clouds around, consuming my skin much like it does the cliffs. I am eroded into smaller pieces, forever settling salt, which gleams old potential on the sea floor. Hair twisting over my face, she molds me into pale imitation, pushing further down so that my neck hits rock bottom. Each vertebrae freed becomes its own creature, fluttering away from being.

The Grey Lady possesses for only a moment, wanting to grasp the child before the human mother can receive it when it is washed up on the shore.

The Grey Lady can never become a mother. I am plucked by my hair, now a lifeline of dead cells. Thick hands pull me up strand by strand, securing my return to this world. I am coughing and sputtering; the Lady is scorned. She can never possess what she believes is already hers.
The Graveyard of the Machines

Here, on a long broken planet, lies the graveyard of the machines. A brief look at their legacy, inspired by the accompanying picture. A clear, lazy sky hangs over the endless expanse of red dirt as the desert rusts in the late afternoon sun…

This is from my short story collection “Universe”. Enjoy!

The Light: A Diary Entry From the Future.

It was darker than usual today, the children aren’t used to the power outages like other people are. They don’t happen often but when they do it’s a shock to the young ones. There is no more light anymore, no more real light that is. Only artificial light…replicated light. For the children it’s all they know, so when the generators cut out it scares them. For us, it’s just like flipping a living room light switch on and off…what it used to be like anyway. Times have changed, the world is a different place now. We look at photos of the earth and how beautiful it used to be and we can’t imagine why anyone would have destroyed such a beautiful gift, but everyone says not to think about the past anymore, we have to move forward. It’s hard though, moving forward. When we don’t know where we’re going, or why, or how, or for what reasons. People always tell us that things are more complicated then they seem, which always bewildered me, I don’t understand how complicated it is to take care of our home. To me the choice seems simple, but somehow it seems the world as a whole manages to choose money over water, business over nature and self over others. When I was a little boy I was told it was my generations job to change the world, maybe they told us that because they knew things were beyond repair, that the system was so far into the ground that no one could change it. When I was young I was told that we wanted to save our planet, protect it from harm, so that our children could have a life better than our own. It seems we’ve failed. I wonder how long it will take us to realize that the choices are not complicated, that we make the rules…and we can change them. If you’re reading this in the future, I hope you can take from it what is needed…a very simple, very unavoidable message.

-Victor Maltor, 2320


Certainty certainly doesn’t exist. Right? The word has a certain-ny sound to it. SIR-TIN. Sir, an authoritative address. Tin, a snarky artist sound. Certainty is a destination far far way visitable by the special few like Tibetan monks or Rush Limbaugh. When the word slips from lips, my ears stretch, like in cartoons, to catch facts, nature’s cement, the words supporting the word. I’ve never used it. I felt it once. In 6th grade because a girl named Barbara Anna.

She had the biggest smallest tits of Liberty Elementary - no one had real tits yet - and wore hypersexualized Walmart outfits. Girls bullied her and the only Chinese girl in Nebraska, a product of Uncle Wong’s family restaurant, who they called “Jackie Chan” and “Mulan bitch,” me.

We were learning about nothing, when Barbara Anna asked, “What’s your favorite color?” My retinas tore at her sunflower lashes that hedged her green marble eyes. I didn’t have a favorite color.

She said, “Mine is yellow. Like your skin.” No, she wasn’t racist. She liked my skin.

She policed the teacher’s desk and, with a yellow marker, brushed my cheek. It blended into my skin into a secret. She transferred two days later, but yellow became my favorite color. Certainly.

Middle school and high school was devoid of the c-word. I want to blame puberty or my parents or capitalism, but that’s a finite and childish escape. I didn’t know. I really don’t know why I didn’t know. My English teachers said my essays lacked a voice. And I should stop using words “seem,” “maybe,” and “I think.”  I shouldn’t ask rhetorical questions either. But aren’t questions first step solutions? Does 1 + 1 = 2? Can’t ones conjoin? What is self? Are you certain you have self when the words you say have been said before and chosen for you? Where does God live and is it comfortable? Is questioning an animal privilege?

I swaddled my discomfort, an ulcer, with contempt for anything insensibly bright. I hated food, though I overate. I hated girls who were ugly and beautiful. I hated me. Me, me, me. My depression was forecastable, an internal rolling cloud that pressed behind my eyes. It was mean. Really mean. It demanded me to sit alone, from coffee shop to coffee shop, no longer than three hours each, so the baristas don’t stare, and I did and still do.

Last year in Sociology, I learned nothing is real. We assume the things we deal with are real, like love or intelligence or burnt toast. The day I learned that, I sat inches behind wisps of sunflower hair. I never had the luxury of touching gold that weighed more than a scanty bracelet. She stared at me staring at her with green marble eyes.

Barbara Anna invited me to coffee and we hugged, maybe too long, before I excused myself. My room door clicked and I cried. I cried and cried. I dropped on my knees to cry some more. I tried to tame my convulsions, but I couldn’t—I couldn’t stop—crying. I don’t know when I fell asleep, but I had a dream in yellow hues. I saw my mom. And dad. In their wedding clothes. They were laughing and throwing Chinese food at each other. They were about to make love. I woke up from a call from Barbara Anna.

I ran out. I arrived at a friend of a friend of a friend’s apartment. I found a man and we found a room. Alcohol ironically smothered my throw up while we undressed and kissed, tasting bitterness apart from vodka. I got wet, although I was sure and unsure I wanted that to happen. I’m a woman repeated in my mind and spiraled into unconscious murmurs. “Yes, you are,” he breathed. I think his testosterone overlooked my apparent mental illness. Right before he puts it in me, I asked, “What’s your favorite color?” He said, “I don’t have one." 

We’ve been together for a year now. And I’m better. We’re stable, perfect, even. I’m certain. Like I’m certain I’m female or straight.

I am an expert. I am an expert at everything. Ask me something, and I will give you an expert opinion. Don’t ask me something, and I will still give you an expert opinion. That’s how much of an expert I am.

For example, if you were to ask me what to wear tonight, I’d say nothing. As in, wear nothing. No clothes at all. And then you would nod and fully embrace this opinion without question. Because who’s the expert in this situation? That’s right. Not you.

No, it doesn’t matter that you’re visiting your parents tonight. Any contextual information you may have is in fact completely superfluous. My opinions come fully preconceived and do not depend on things like facts. They depend only on my ability to voice them, after which point you will accept them and put them into practice immediately.

Stop looking at me that way. Experts sometimes tell us things we don’t want to hear. That doesn’t mean they’re wrong or crazy. You might think it’s insane to show up to your parents’ house buck naked, but it is not up to you to think about these things, or even think in general. That, by the way, was an expert opinion.

Want some more opinions? OK. The best way to spend a Sunday afternoon? Drive your car into a field of cattle and do not take your foot off the gas. How to impress your neighbors? Build a quarter-scale model of your house, demolish your real house, and then put the model on your property so they think you magically shrunk it. The treatment for a venomous snakebite? Snausages.

I am an expert. 

—Chester DeLish

[ONE-SHOT] Stand Still (WMatsui)

[ONE-SHOT]  Stand Still  (WMatsui)

   ถึงแม้การเลือกตั้งเซมบัตสึจะจบลงไปแล้วแต่เรื่องระหว่างฉัน และเรนะจังนั้นมันยังคง…
    …ยังคงไว้ซึ่งอยู่เหนือเหตุผลร้อยแปดใด ๆ ทั้งสิ้น

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Random Short Fiction #3: "The Perils of a Modern Midwest News Desk"

     The sky is all pissed off again and so is Stan. He knows this tornado will soon litter cable news networks with images of mangled gas stations and high school football fields swamped by debris. He knows cameramen and field producers will search feverishly for a Bob’s Big Boy statue flipped over somewhere along the highway because nothing screams post-apocalypse to a news-numb nine to fiver like Planet of the Apes. But he also knows his field team is shit. Last time they positioned Brenna in front of a fully-intact farmhouse, and he’ll be lucky if they can find an overturned pickup.

      An I-Report featuring some graphic footage comes in via a network facebook page – the business show page of all pages, which is odd considering a separate page was already set up for I-Report submissions and the business show demo doesn’t seem like the same demo that would interact with the company’s social media initiatives, I mean the business page has something in the neighborhood of 238 “Likes”, most of them from graying men named Maury - and now editorial has to assess this graphic imagery. This beautiful, supple, graphic imagery that is just ripe for a newsbreak yet toes the boundaries between hungry journalism and advertiser revolt. “Will it play in Peoria?” a junior producer asks Stan. But before Stan can answer the teleprompter operator looks up from his I-Phone to tell them it already has. “Gawker just splashed their front page with that shit. It’s even got a custom Mayhem ad from All State attached to it. It’s god-damn beautiful.”

        “Fuck!” the collective newsroom exclaims. Stan is paralyzed with memories of high school coaches snatching him away from chance encounters with glory. “You’re too tentative" they’d tell him. “Just throw the fucking thing.”

        “Snap out of it Stan”, Steve says, handing him a coffee. The coffee tastes like shit because Steve lacks many basic social competencies. He doesn’t need them because he never wants to leave the newsroom. On Pizza Day Steve has Chinese delivered and when most people leave for the night Steve slavishly refreshes The Guardian hoping to catch something breaking six hours in the future. Nobody wanted that tragic footage more than Steve. This tornado had whisked into Steve’s life. Swept him off his feet. And now he was faced with the prospect that it might just as suddenly twist away – like a television show that captivates you for years only to completely blow the ending.

      A phone rings. It’s from the field. Stan paces nervously toward the phone while Steve stares helplessly, gripped between hope and dread. Stan holds it to his ear. “Brenna. Are you there?” A long pause.

     Then: “Jesus Christ. You’re not gonna believe this Stan.”

     Stan can just picture it: that beautiful Bob’s Big Boy statue strewn along a blanket of downed trees. The face is cracked, the burger has been ripped from the serving plate. Christ almighty if they can get one with the burger missing. Even if the burger isn’t missing, would it hurt to tear it off? A burger-less Bob’s Big Boy statue is bound to become a meme, and when people see that meme it will always be accompanied by their news bug in the image’s lower-third.

      “What is it?”

      “I’m just off the interstate, 15 miles south of Kansas City. We were going to look for something to eat when we saw it.”

      “Saw what? A Bob’s Big Boy? Are you standing in front of a mutilated Bob’s Big Boy?”

      “A Bob’s what? Check your screen. Cory’s sending the feed. We’re ready to go live when you are.”

     Stan’s eyes dart from Steve to the monitor. The screen flickers from a ‘no signal’ image to an image of Brenna in the parking lot of a McDonald’s.  The windows are blown out and there are cows littered throughout the scene – in the restaurant, outside the restaurant – a whole mess of them must’ve been carried by the storm. One of them is impaled by the broken window glass. Another is draped over the drive-thru menu. People love flying cows, but cows that have seemingly kamikaze attacked the Oakwood McDonald’s? Sweet Jesus.  Stan looks at Steve. Steve smiles.

A short fiction by me because i'm bored and procrastinating homework i'm sure i have...

One day, Joey decided to take a stroll around his Brooklyn block and soak up the scenery, He decidedly brought his camera along for the journey in case he found any sights that were photo worthy and he could add them to his instagram collection! Joey scrolled through his photos in the camera quickly before stepping out the door, smiling a jolly smile at the ones of him and his friends attending Lance’s slumber party last weekend. Oh good times. He was soon out the door and down the building’s stoop, skipping down the broken sidewalk, passing a homeless man with a broken and fatally cut leg, begging for mercy before bleeding out and dying. Joey thought this event conveyed strong emotions and ultimately turned around, snapping a selfie as the man lay dead in the background. Approvingly, Joey nodded at the photo, he loved the contrast of emotions it held. He moved further down the streets of Brooklyn, the sounds of police sirens chiming as they raced passed him, what a calming sight, he thought and took a photo swiftly before they disappeared down the road.
“Don’t Move!” He heard a voice shout, Joey being not the brightest crayon in the crayon box, turned around right away to see a short masked man pointing a gun at him fiercely.
“Don’t move is said! Put the camera in the bag!” The mugger barked and Joey cocked his head to the side.
“What camera?” He asked looking confused.
“C'mon, Joey, don’t play stupid, The one around your neck that holds that embarrassing picture of me!”
“Chris?” He said, reaching forward pulling off the skii mask, revealing the face of an upset Chris. Joey smiled brightly, but it faded as his eyes wandered to the gun, lingering on it for a moment. “Is that yours?” He whispered. Chris shook his head.
“Nah, it’s my cousin’s he let me borrow it, cool right.” Grinned Chris as he twirled the gun in his hand.
“Isn’t that dangerous?” Asked Joey, taking the gun from Chris and trying to twirl it himself.
“Nah, it’s not loaded, you think i’m an idiot?” Just then, the gun sounded with a piercing cry, Joey’s hearing becoming fuzzy as he heard Chris scream something.
“YOU FUCKING IDIOT” His friend cried, laying on the ground, holding his bleeding foot. In a panic, Joey’s mouth ran apologies.
“Hold on! I’ll get you a band-aid!” and down the street he went.

James [Sara's brother]

James stood in the doorway talking to his mother. His large body dominated the doorway. James was 6’6 and 270 lbs. He was solid as the oak door. James’ hair was the colour of mahogany it fell just below his shoulders. He had it pulled and tied back with a leather strap. the strap had a letter ‘C’ burnt into the leather. He wore a black wife beater with dark blue jeans and combat boots on. His shoulders were tense. James and his mother, Anya was talking about Sara, Junior, and Andrew. His half siblings. They particular stressed about Sara and Junior.

Anya spoke with an inflection in her tone, “James, I want what is owed to me. That is your pretty little sister, Sara. I can’t wait for Junior and Lyric to have kids. Sara is able to produce a good litter of pups.” James shook his head, “Mom, Sara is no timid little girl. I will have to damage her. She won’t come without a fight. She works for a powerful mob boss. Then there is Frankie. He won’t let anything take his Sara.” James growled then went to leave. Anya yells, “Boy, I didn’t dismiss you. Your deadbeat piece of shit of father signed a bounded contract. I want that bitch Sara and or the Capriotti Empire needs to fall, James.” James bellows, “I know this. All I am saying is if I get her she will fight me and she will come back here damaged goods.” Anya looks at her son. She was staring right through him.

Anya spoke, “James as long as she can have a litter of pups that are all that matters. Go get your pretty little sister. We have wasted almost ten years looking for her.” James rubbed the stubble on his face and he groaned. “Fine I am taking few of others with me. I know that this will not be easy. Shit, she killed our father.” James says. “You need to find Junior too. I want him to know the Empire is coming down.” Anya says in a threatening tone.

James turns to leave. His back is towards his mother. “You done? I’ve got things to do, mother.” James says angrily. Anya tosses a paper weight at James’ head. She misses and hits him in the shoulder. James’ mind goes blank, and his eyes are black. He spins around then he’s over the table. He has his mother pinned up against the wall. James’ claws are digging into the delicate skin of his mother’s neck. James is acting like a rabid dog. He is growling and snarling at her. He leans forward and sinks canines into her right shoulder. Anya shrieks from the pain. Anya quickly recites a spell. James lets go of his mother. His body goes stiff, and now Anya has James pinned up against the wall.

Anya says, “James bring your sister to me. You will chain Sara to a bed. And of one of the idiots will get her pregnant.” Anya waves her hand and releases James. He drops to the ground. There is a loud thud when the body makes contact with the ground. James gets to his feet. “You brought it on. You know how quickly my temper flares.” James spoke with a clenched jaw. Anya laughs darkly before she replies, “I am the alpha here. Do what you are needed to do.” She turns and walks away.

James takes a step or two then he is out the door. He grabs one male werewolf, and a werewitch then they get into a black Land Rover, and James speeds off. James makes his way to the interstate. James drove with urgency down the interstate. He takes the Shreveport exit. James makes his way into the Shreveport area. As James drives around with the window down. He picks up on lingering scents of Sara. He pulls over into a dive bar right on the outside of the heart of Shreveport. James parks the Range Rover they all get out and make the way towards the bar, Devil’s Child. James is of a large size all the patrons and employees turned to look at him.

James strolled up to the bar. The petite blonde bartender asks, “ What can I get you?” Her eyes move from his torso up to his face. She smiles at James. “I take a bottle of Jack Daniels.” James says to her. “Um…Sir I can’t give you the bottle.” the petite blonde says. James takes an extremely large roll of hundreds from his pocket and throws it on the counter. The lady smiles at him and hands him two bottles of Jack Daniels. “Give them whatever they want.” James says as he grabs the bottles then pointing with his other hand at the two males behind him. James walks over to the booth seating and parks his ass on the bench seat. His legs are out in the aisle. James’ eyes scan the area. He has picked up on the light scent of Sara. He leaps up from the bench seat. James makes his way over to another male with short brown hair, hazel eyes, tattoos, and piercings. This male has on black jeans, biker boots, and a wife beater. When James is close enough, he inhales and picks up on the weak scent that is lingering.

James tapped the male with brown hair on the shoulder. The male turned around to see James looking at him. “Do you know a Sara Brooks, Sara Capriotti, or also known as Sara Jayne Brooks-Capriotti?” James asks the male. The two males that accompanied James into the bar were posted on the sides of James. “Look man, I don’t have a fucking clue whom you are. If, I did or didn’t I wouldn’t tell you.” The male says in an aggressive manner. The male with the light brown hair turns back around to his friends around the tall tables. James coughs then turns the male back to face James. “Look it is of grave importance that I find her.” James says. “Look man, listen. Do you not speak English? I am not saying shit to you. I don’t know you, dude.” The male says. Now the male is laughing with his friends. James’ temper ripples as he takes his Beretta 8000 Cougar out of his holster and points the barrel of the gun right between the male’s eyes. “Now, lets try this again. Do you know Sara Capriotti or a Sara Brooks?” James says standing there with complacent look. The male looked at the gun crossed eyed, “Look all I can say is this. She isn’t a bitch you need to fuck with. She is deeply involved.” The male says as he stutters as he speaks.

“Look man, that chick is an underboss for a powerful man. Your best bet is not to get involved or go look for her. Her brother runs the Capriotti Empire. Then her man is a psychotic son of a bitch. I’m telling you for your health leave that bitch alone, man.” A deeper voice says that is not too far away from James and the other male. James nods as he listens. “You’re telling me shit I already know. I want to know where I can find her?” James says while pressing the barrel harder on the person’s forehead. The male looks to James the male’s senses were on high alert because he had no clue what was about to happen. The man with the deep voice says, “She lives somewhere in Shreveport. No one knows exactly where. Man, just let my brother go.” James looks at the male that is speaking. His eyes almost glaze over with anticipation. James laughs maniacally then speaking slowly, “That doesn’t seem to be in the stars for him.” James shoots the male. There is a thump as the body drops to the ground. Mass panic spreads throughout the bar. Women are screeching and running out the doors. James snaps his fingers the two males disperse to take care of the other people in the bar.

The shots ringing out through the bar. James gets off a few shots he takes out the male with a deep voice. James toss his Beretta 8000 Cougar  forces the change to wolf without any problems. James’ wolf is extremely large reddish brown and grey-wolf. James is filled with rage, hate and maiming. His wolf being in an enclosed space in a small bar and needing to get out. James tears out the throats, intestines, and limbs of the patrons of the bar. The other male werewolf that came with James finds James closest to the front entrance. He is ripping into the tender flesh of the petite bartender. James uses his large paws to expose her intestines. He just rips through her until his claws come out the of her back. James gnaws at her left arm and pulls the arm out of its socket. The other werewolf male opens the front entrance. James pads out of the bar to his SUV. He changes back to his human form. He gets his clothes out of the vehicle. James dresses fastly he runs back inside the bar to retrieve his gun. James heads back out just as he hears sirens. He jumps into the vehicle and takes off towards downtown Shreveport. James says out loud as he drives, “I’ll huff and I’ll puff. The big bad wolf is coming to get you Sara Jayne Brooks Capriotti.”

Those Moments Missed

    I lay my head upon your lap. I was ten and you told me stories of Gods and princes and demons. I watched as you sang the same hymns every morning, the melody announcing our day’s routine. You took me shopping for trinkets and I would help you bargain for the best price. You were life’s constant, always laughing deep-bellied so that it shook your whole frame.

    But as I evolved, you stayed the same, and soon I outgrew your stories and our outings and the quiet times we’d spend together. School friends and high school crushes preoccupied my mind; college applications and my future awaited me. I had to travel through your room to get to mine, but you were an afterthought as I raced to glue myself to my computer.

    “Sit with me, talk to me a while,” you’d implore, in the language that now felt rusty on my tongue. There was fragility there, but I didn’t want to see it. I would sit on the edge of the bed and make sure to never progress past the small talk, considering my duty done.

    Then one day you fell, and the drugs from your surgery advanced the muddling of your mind to a stage unfathomable. Suddenly your body was there but you had moved on. I watched as friends and relatives confused you, making you scared to speak your garbled stories aloud. Your eyes stayed haunted and whenever you thought no one was watching, you would cry. I began to live for the times when you would remember my name, the fleeting moments when I could see the ghost of who you’d been.

    The other day, I found an old family photo album. Every page contained your smiling face, eyes crinkled upwards. The pictures played tricks on me because I could see your entire body shaking, as it used to when you laughed.

    Now I lay my head upon your lap. You stroke my hair softly, relying on reflex. And if I close my eyes I can almost believe that I am ten.

A continuation of Boredom. ( Actually i should go cook, and Justin should get his hands out of his pants.)

“Yo Chris, is you hangin yo shot feetz out my window likez i said?” Justin asked sternly, peering at his friend through the rear view mirror who only returned a hateful look.
“Okay, one, it’s FEET not FEETs and two, Joey only shot ONE FOOT, three, yes, so calm the fuck down.” Justin didn’t take lightly to this and was about to protest Chris’ harsh attitude but was interrupted by Britney taking her top off.
“Gurl! Wut da hellz do you thinks you is doin? Putcho shirt back on, dare be anoder man in here!” said Justin, making sure Chris wasn’t checking out his woman.
“Another man? I thought it was just me, whose the other guy?” Chris snickered. “Could you hurry up? I can’t feel my foot anymore! Oh god…what if i have to get it amputated? what if it falls off? What if the government uses this as an opportunity to attach a bionic foot and use me as a weapon of mass destruction in society!?”
“Chris, don’t over react.” Britney giggled, putting on some lipstick in the mirror, but failing miserably due to Justin’s illegal driving methods.
“Yo gurl, didn’t i tell you to be puttin yo shirt back o-” Interrupted by the ringing of his cellphone, crying out Katey Perry’s ‘Roar’, He reached in his pockets desperately with one hand, trying to find his phone. They where in his pants, they had to be! Then he remembered accidentally putting them IN his PANTS instead of his pocket. “Yo, no one be lookin at muh junk, dat be directed towardz you Chris.”
“Why the fuck would i want to-” Ultimately Chris let it go and sighed. Justin unzipped the front of his pants, undoing the button as well as he searched for the phone. “What idiot makes this mistake.”
“Only Justin!” Chimed Britney in an innocent manner. Justin knew he was exceeding the speed limit by more than he usually abused it, and that’s when he heard the wailing sound of sirens behind him, pulling over to the side of the road in comply.