Christophe Roadman knew only one thing: he wanted to be cool more than anything else in the world. If only he were popular, maybe last year's foreign exchange student, this year's current quarterback's personal slut Anna Blogoivichaisk, would finally notice him. Despite the mounds of hair gel stolen from his older brother and leather jacket that was handed down from his grandfather, since they couldn't afford a new one, Christophe's junior year started out just like any other. He was pushed around, teased, beaten, and sodomoized multiple times before even making it to first period. As they say, "Once a nerd, always a nerd". The skinny wrists that often slipped from his two sizes too small jacket alone singled him out like a scarlet letter in the most prestigious High School in the city. In this place if you couldn't put a ball through a hole, or score a touchdown, you were nothing, less than nothing if you weren't associated with someone who did.
In physics class Christophe couldn't help but find himself staring directly at Anna each day, fantasizing her defilement as his show-and-tell project. "'And now, I will demonstrate the flying pile driver!", "For my next feat, prepare to be amazed folks! Goat on the cliff!", he could hear her voice sing his praise so clearly, "Oh! Christophe! I've always loved you Christophe. Christophe! Christophe!"
Snap back to reality, drool running down his face and the entire class looking at him dead on. The room bursts into laughter as the students follow his glance and quickly become aware of what he was thinking about. "Are you alright, son?" the professor's voice travels delicately over the booming rumble of ridicule. Roadman made a sort of yelping sound and jumped up from his desk, bolting for the door. In doing so the distinct, though small in diameter, bulge in his hand-me-down corduroy became blatantly obvious. Blood drained from his face as he stopped, glanced at his budding erection twitch and back to the thirty faces looking straight at his crotch wide eyed in the suspenseful calm before the storm. The howl of laughter that was let out was the last thing he heard as his vision faded to black.
This off chemical smell was the first thing he noticed, regaining consciousness in the school's infirmary, whatever that is it couldn't be good with long term exposure. Through a gaze of intense intrusive waves of headache Christophe could see nurse Candy flirting with one of the dads come to pick up their kid. Catching some movement in the corner of her eye she focuses the little attention she has to her junior patient. The recently divorced father behind the counter is noticeably upset. 'Oh, how're you doing sugar?', a conveyed sense of concern yet apathy, the now deeply suicidal kid mumbled on about his head, shy that he was being treated by the hottest nurse he had ever seen outside of his step dad's crusty and rancid smelling pornography collection, hidden as though an afterthought, halfheartedly under a shoebox..'Porn.' He couldn't help but think about it whenever he saw her in the hallways. It was more than just adolescent hormones he was sure. Christophe's depth perception began to fade as the sight of blood dripping from his forehead quickly caught his full attention. 'I'm going downstairs to get a couple things from the vending machine, you want anything honey?'
Two months later, rumors of the story had distorted that incident into a grotesque crack baby born of incest. Poor Roadman had heard versions leading up to him whipping his dick out, ripping Anna's clothes off, giving her what was referred to affectionately around the school as the cum dumpster and immediately seizing. Wanting more than anything to perform that act on her 'If only...' All and all not much had changed however, he had already been treated as a pariah prior to that social kamikaze and there wasn't much lower he could've gone anyhow. In knitting class he confided in his closest friends Slater and Ernie. 'I don't know how I'm suppose to win her over now' in his usual pathetic manner. Breaking his routine scan outside of the softball player trim, Slater goes on a snarky tone. 'Anna Blogoivichaisk? You still on that, dude? Let's go for pizza after school.' Ernie without looking up from his perfectly crafted scarf, 'Look on the bright side, now she at least knows you exist'
'Not how I want the most popular girl in school to regard me'
i neeeded to rewrite bunch of shit never got around to it. the grandfather was a POW and he got gangbanged for years while wearing the leather jacket. they steal and car have a nice joy ride meet up with some hilarious cops.pull pranks on the jocks. he ends up with the nurse who is actually in the porn industry and (partly cause of the jacket) the ... See Morestory ends with her crawling out of bed to go shoot a gangbang scene. and this will basically be his life for years on end until he's ripped in two at a dolphin carnival, he lives part man part machine fighting crime for a few years, goes bankrupt gets his cybernetic limbs repossessed and dies in an alleyway choking on dick to get his next high pretty much
And the ice you put in your dog food bowl to replace the kibble... it melted. Bringing another mutt to it's knees, howling a Christ awful tune of despair and denial, whilst the wind chimes in with the harmony. Our fore father's told us this would happen, but we denied the hallowed cries, and went on anyway. Continuing to feed the dog blocks of ice, starving it of not only culture, but a bare necessity of life.. food. And when hunting season came around, we had no help. Just human hands holding the corroded, blood soaked neck of some, half-assed, two-bit graceful swan. The dogs are gone now, it's about time we go extinct as well.
The funniest part is that the soldier actually did join the army to maintain his status as being the biggest and best. This was the kind of kid in high school that would make jokes similar to replacing the word, "rye" with the word "eye" In the great novel, "Catcher in the Rye" written by, JD Salinger. The kind of kid that would make jokes about the less fortunate students, and would often go to physical lengths to intimidate them. Well sir, I hope you take a good long look at what your son has done. After 3 weeks serving in Iraq, the mental images of children's insides being worn out and seeing the inside of a throat were too haunting to erase. A mind which was some what once like a chalk board, which could be swept clean with the movement of a limp-dull wrest, was now restless and convulsing. He thought killing other men, would boost his inflated ego another notch up and possibly start a rip in the Earth's atmosphere. He was wrong, 2 nights after he returned home, Benjamin Craddock Eisley blew his own brains out with a double barrel shotgun he had strapped under the dining room table, in front of his entire family, during his own coming home party. Bits of brain matter were thrown from his skull onto his 5 year old daughter who then shrieked a cry of utter horror and then fainted. Chips of bone entered his elderly grandfather's eyes blinding him for the last 4 years of his life. And of course his parents! Faces soaked in blood that could never be removed!!! None the less, he was successful at destroying the humble ambiance that was held in the air just moments before. Point being, even if you make it out of the army alive, you are still going to end up as fertilizer one way, or another.
Years after their son Benji had ended himself at the dinner table during his coming home party. The Eisley's still couldn't wash the brains from the table mat, the wallpaper. Or the blood from their hair or beneath their fingernails. After that night they could no longer see in color, taste or smell. Their existence was the definition of austere/desolate. Worst of all neither could communicate this feeling of isolation to the other. Each was a prisoner in their own skull. Mr. Eisley took to depriving himself of the things any human needs, punishment for the countless mistakes he made in little Benji's life as he grew up. Each morning he woke up and began his ritual, two multivitamin suppositories a day for meals, bending over and spreading his ass cheeks in a fashion that would put goatse to shame. The wet smack of his lips disgusted him as he slid two fingers in and out of his mouth, teased and fingered his asshole, then back to his mouth, and finally back up his hairy anus, in crawled his breakfast.
Mrs. Eisley was worse off. A typically day in the life began with railing an 8ball in 5 minutes flat on a day she wanted to take it easy, followed by hours of Oprah, Dr. Phil, and Alf. Then the long drive downtown in search of the only thing that mattered to her anymore. Months ago, before she maintained a schedule, it started off fairly innocent, you could find her on any given day either giving half-bit handjobs in the taco bell bathroom off 124 or radiating bitterness outside of the elementary school, just smoking, just watching. Nowadays the only way she could feel anything, no matter how fleeting, was through a secondhand high. Nothing did it for her better than crackhead spew. The rush you get from sucking off a crackhead dick compares to no other high. Maybe it was chems swimming in their bodies or just the act of doing something so unheard of. Between the wet slopping sounds of her swallowing every drop of saliva, sliding down their shafts and the involuntary noises she made as the man of the hour convulsively fucked her throat, she would often whisper in their ear "That's it Benjamin. Give it all to momma!" or in exasperated submission, "Such a good boy" immediately after she would almost always eat out the man's asshole, tonguing his pancreas while simultaneously stroking him off.
Mr. Eisley has long since destroyed his desire to feel, let alone his sexual desire. Dropping his sack on a block of dry ice, shattered his testicles and used a hacksaw to carve off the cock that had been on permachubby since his damned blind father finally croaked over. Mr. Eisley began to pour his soul into his career as a Disney animator. Singlehandedly composing The Little Mermaid, little nemo, and of course Aladdin and the thirteen thieves. Wanting nothing more but to end his pain, one night he dragged himself out to the tool shed and soaked himself in gasoline. He must've sat there for hours moving his eyes from the past to the match in his hand to the matchbox and back, near hyperventilating the whole time. Without thought he slowly shoved the matchbox into his pocket and, in broken stride, stumbled off in to the moonless night.