The Doorknocker Dog (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} almightyhedbutt) wrote,@ 2008-12-05 08:02:00 |
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Blargityblarg.
Another round of things that I never finished, but who the hell cares. Most of it is stuff from the Sarah Lawrence course over the summer.
The note was written on looseleaf with the holes ripped out, and dropped on Sister Laverne’s doorstep somewhere around 2 AM. Four hours later, when she opened the door, it was still there, held in place by the morning newspaper.
The old nun held it with the very tips of her fingers, squinting to make out the words that slanted in all directions.
Alright, here are my demands:
1) 10 grand.
2) A personal secretary. Not one of those grannies, either. A hot one. I don’t care if her tits are real or not.
3) A pony.
Now, because I’m a thoughtful asshole, I’ll explain.
The 10k is for food, rent, and Xbox Live. N00bs don’t frag themselves, y’know.
The personal secretary is for… Well, I just like the idea of a chick following me around and taking my calls. I’m not a classy guy, and I admit it. But a personal secretary can turn anyone into Tony fricking Stark.
And the pony is for sitting on.
If you choose to crap out like the shitbucket you are, then you can bet your biscuit that I’m gonna blow up every last kitten in the city.
So think of the fucking kittens.
Love,
Jack
*
Jack Staulker should have been at school. But his mother thought he had a fever and let him stay in, because she was late for work and he had looked sick as anything she’d seen.
But he wasn’t sick, since it was only a little joint last night, but he wanted the day off anyway.
His brother knew that something was up, and that morning Red had been glaring at Jack over his cereal. Silently of course, since Jack would have hung him up on the showerhead by his boxers if he squealed.
In the end, none of that mattered, because Jack had the house empty and he could play Halo for… how long was it? Red would come home at 4-ish, which was seven hours, and their mom wouldn’t get back until three hours later. All in all, ten hours. Ten hours of quality time with his 360, or his Wii, or even his battered old PS2. Normally, the DS would have been on that list, but it was in his gym locker after last week when he’d actually gone to class, and worn the wrong pants home.
---
Jack hadn’t been thrilled to drive though the rolling hills of Colorado, but at least a big, fat bonus was waiting for him at home for doing deliveries.
It was almost 5 in the evening, and the last stop was just up ahead. He pulled into the driveway (whoa, long driveway) and let the engine die, emitting its usual cow-ish complaint. As he unloaded the truck, he wondered why the hell would Old Man Copernicus want to rent a cotton candy machine, but a quick glance at the house told him why. Streamers dripped like spiderweb across the porch, festively yellow and yet… depressing.
Jack hauled the cotton candy machine to the front door, creating a missed opportunity for any girls (of legal age) in the area to admire his biceps. He prided himself on those biceps, spending great chunks of time in the school fitness center to avoid the typical gamer physique—a beer gut and sausage fingers stained with Cheeto residue.
Old Man Copernicus didn’t answer when Jack knocked, nor when he kicked the doorbell hard enough to crack the plastic casing. Looking at the driveway wasn’t a reliable indicator of whether the geezer was home or not; Jack didn’t know what his car looked like, or if he even had one. But Copernicus had paid for the machine already, and Jack had done his job by delivering it, so he didn’t need to stick around and see whether it went into the right hands. There was no one else for miles, anyway.
With a manly grunt, Jack set down the cotton candy machine in front of the door and turned, gearing himself for the two-hour drive back home. But a brief, sudden movement caught his eye, and he went over to the fence around the old man’s backyard.
Jack stared.
The pony stared back.
It wasn’t a particularly attractive pony, with a pot belly and clumps of hay protruding from his mane like bad highlights. It was brown, which for all Jack knew was the color of every pony in the world.
“So,” Jack said. “What’s your name?”
The pony chewed on its foot.
“Seriously dude, what’s your name?” Jack repeated, tapping on the fence obnoxiously.
The pony stopped chewing and looked at him again, completely unenthused. Sharpie-ed on its halter was “Mr. Sprinkles.”
“What,” Jack grinned. “You’re Mr. Sprinkles? Was ‘Sergeant Douchebag’ taken or something?”
The pony snorted. Evidently, this human boy had no tasty goods on him, which made his presence useless. He returned to grazing.
“So Mr. Sprinkles, can I have a ride?”
Mr. Sprinkles turned his rump to the fence. It was bad enough that he had to contend with screaming children as part of his job. He didn’t need a bigger human thing to bother him, especially if it didn’t have any food.
“Fine, be that way. I’ve got a Jeep, anyway,” Jack replied. “It’s sexier than you, that’s for sure.”
Mr. Sprinkles did not feel insulted.
Jack looked back at his watch. 5:20. Randall would want him back.
“See you around, pony,” Jack said, and walked back to the car.
---
Eventually I'll post something recent. XP
Another round of things that I never finished, but who the hell cares. Most of it is stuff from the Sarah Lawrence course over the summer.
The note was written on looseleaf with the holes ripped out, and dropped on Sister Laverne’s doorstep somewhere around 2 AM. Four hours later, when she opened the door, it was still there, held in place by the morning newspaper.
The old nun held it with the very tips of her fingers, squinting to make out the words that slanted in all directions.
Alright, here are my demands:
1) 10 grand.
2) A personal secretary. Not one of those grannies, either. A hot one. I don’t care if her tits are real or not.
3) A pony.
Now, because I’m a thoughtful asshole, I’ll explain.
The 10k is for food, rent, and Xbox Live. N00bs don’t frag themselves, y’know.
The personal secretary is for… Well, I just like the idea of a chick following me around and taking my calls. I’m not a classy guy, and I admit it. But a personal secretary can turn anyone into Tony fricking Stark.
And the pony is for sitting on.
If you choose to crap out like the shitbucket you are, then you can bet your biscuit that I’m gonna blow up every last kitten in the city.
So think of the fucking kittens.
Love,
Jack
*
Jack Staulker should have been at school. But his mother thought he had a fever and let him stay in, because she was late for work and he had looked sick as anything she’d seen.
But he wasn’t sick, since it was only a little joint last night, but he wanted the day off anyway.
His brother knew that something was up, and that morning Red had been glaring at Jack over his cereal. Silently of course, since Jack would have hung him up on the showerhead by his boxers if he squealed.
In the end, none of that mattered, because Jack had the house empty and he could play Halo for… how long was it? Red would come home at 4-ish, which was seven hours, and their mom wouldn’t get back until three hours later. All in all, ten hours. Ten hours of quality time with his 360, or his Wii, or even his battered old PS2. Normally, the DS would have been on that list, but it was in his gym locker after last week when he’d actually gone to class, and worn the wrong pants home.
---
Jack hadn’t been thrilled to drive though the rolling hills of Colorado, but at least a big, fat bonus was waiting for him at home for doing deliveries.
It was almost 5 in the evening, and the last stop was just up ahead. He pulled into the driveway (whoa, long driveway) and let the engine die, emitting its usual cow-ish complaint. As he unloaded the truck, he wondered why the hell would Old Man Copernicus want to rent a cotton candy machine, but a quick glance at the house told him why. Streamers dripped like spiderweb across the porch, festively yellow and yet… depressing.
Jack hauled the cotton candy machine to the front door, creating a missed opportunity for any girls (of legal age) in the area to admire his biceps. He prided himself on those biceps, spending great chunks of time in the school fitness center to avoid the typical gamer physique—a beer gut and sausage fingers stained with Cheeto residue.
Old Man Copernicus didn’t answer when Jack knocked, nor when he kicked the doorbell hard enough to crack the plastic casing. Looking at the driveway wasn’t a reliable indicator of whether the geezer was home or not; Jack didn’t know what his car looked like, or if he even had one. But Copernicus had paid for the machine already, and Jack had done his job by delivering it, so he didn’t need to stick around and see whether it went into the right hands. There was no one else for miles, anyway.
With a manly grunt, Jack set down the cotton candy machine in front of the door and turned, gearing himself for the two-hour drive back home. But a brief, sudden movement caught his eye, and he went over to the fence around the old man’s backyard.
Jack stared.
The pony stared back.
It wasn’t a particularly attractive pony, with a pot belly and clumps of hay protruding from his mane like bad highlights. It was brown, which for all Jack knew was the color of every pony in the world.
“So,” Jack said. “What’s your name?”
The pony chewed on its foot.
“Seriously dude, what’s your name?” Jack repeated, tapping on the fence obnoxiously.
The pony stopped chewing and looked at him again, completely unenthused. Sharpie-ed on its halter was “Mr. Sprinkles.”
“What,” Jack grinned. “You’re Mr. Sprinkles? Was ‘Sergeant Douchebag’ taken or something?”
The pony snorted. Evidently, this human boy had no tasty goods on him, which made his presence useless. He returned to grazing.
“So Mr. Sprinkles, can I have a ride?”
Mr. Sprinkles turned his rump to the fence. It was bad enough that he had to contend with screaming children as part of his job. He didn’t need a bigger human thing to bother him, especially if it didn’t have any food.
“Fine, be that way. I’ve got a Jeep, anyway,” Jack replied. “It’s sexier than you, that’s for sure.”
Mr. Sprinkles did not feel insulted.
Jack looked back at his watch. 5:20. Randall would want him back.
“See you around, pony,” Jack said, and walked back to the car.
---
Eventually I'll post something recent. XP
