stipulations of blunder.

bell-timer snuck off in the night. click click click click. rush rush.

A married couple find themselves suffocating in a trunk of 1975 Buick. it ain't pink and it definitely isn't the honeymoon. a straight man with a hemorrhoid problem walks by and thinks it's a family of Christmas trees dying of root withdrawal. he was always a thinker, principal guinea pig and ms. crab ass used to say about him. names-classified, for reputation purposes and insight propaganda.

the bell-timer loses its footing and falls off the kitchen sink. the damn boy never does the job RIGHT.

the Buick owner is in the parlor bathroom flushing the toilet and sipping on terrible wine he stole from an empty table. he sees an ant on the seat and crushes it with his knee, just like the females like it. he slips back into the parlor and goes to the bar unnoticed. no friends, just a couple gag gifts in the trunk of the car. he's a firm go getter and ball breaker. he bowled when he was younger but got his pecker stuck in a 10 inch sized ball hole and never recovered from the embarrassment. he's not a testicle guy, hates the sight of his package even though it's like a pair of left over eggs and not a set of bowling balls. always thinking but never getting it right. write that down. the inside of his jeans smell like a disrespected oyster bar. the kind you'd find a man who takes the train to work and reuses the same ticket over and over owns. his words don't come out frequently or without a kick. he's a yeller and a squealer but it's never to anyone's payment of mind. he'd go further in life than his taxi hut job (where he cleans the cum off the seats the drivers are too high class to handle) but he's got a father who now takes it up the ass and the strict ruler he was usually straightened out with got sold in a garage sale to help pay for his new church clothes. goddamn that mom of his, he's got no direction, just a couple traffic lights he sees on the way around town. he goes back and forth to his work and the parlor where no one hardly notices him. there's 4 men on staff every night but he gets served twice if he's lucky, and three times if he's wearing that bright jacket he wore in high school that the old gang of youth-mules tossed mud on when he was batter up in a pick up game in the breaking hours of school in 89'. his round of choice at the bar side is a dark one if he can afford it or make it to happy hour on time and then a light one so he can feel good about his weight and hope to fuck that pretty little blonde head that works the counter where he buys his marlboros and gas from. after the second beer, while waiting and hoping he gets served a third, he'll spike up conversation with the nearest bar stool humper.
"been coming to this bar for the past 6 months, and i'll tell you it's a lot better than that spill hut on 5th and berkeley"
he stares at this woman's mirror reflection directly ahead of them both. the near menopaused saggy pancake tit'd woman (of possible extraterrestrial origin) sips her dimly lit beer then responds,
"yeah, that is true you know. I used to work the second shift at St. Josephs hospital right around there, I'd get off around midnight and slide in there for a crucifixing buzz....the boys in that bar were always too much of a rascal tandem for me to deal with....not sure why...maybe it was the hour"
ol skipper slipped up and said
"with tits like yours, honey, I wouldn't be surprised the whole town acted a bit loopy, you already remind me of pancake breakfast"
the beer slammed down and the stool screeched and he was left with himself again. Ahh fuck it all, I got 2 little pigs in the oven of my car, what do I need to hang my self with a hag for, he thought. he hoped one of them somehow had braces, but they were over 24, so he stopped thinking and flopped down some cash and headed for the door. He gets outside, breathes in the night humidity east Texas always offers and marches to the car where he lays his ear on the trunk in efforts to hear something human. He thinks he hears some breathing but he can't be sure, fuck it, they've been in there for hours, probably dead like hopes were planned for.

Driving home he notices bugs fly by and pays attention to the road like a good driver should. His thoughts are on pancakes and strap-ons.

He pulls in his driveway.

He lives in a trailer that was once a house of meth and math problems. An old math teacher from the local high school was caught cooking meth in this house just 2 years ago. He bought it from the county auction with help from his weak mother who he barely speaks to but coined up enough precious talk for getting him on his feet and his lack of proper childhood affairs, that ol' sad story. He pulls around back, though it's not much needed, no one lives within a hundred yards of his lot, and the road he lives off of is rarely used by anyone other than himself and that wretched fuck of a landscape artist that lives down the way towards the dead end. The trunk is popped open. The couple, the one in his trunk, the lovebirds that they were, beaten like future rednecks, tied up like hogs, gagged like whores, tricked by an online scheme of a Buick for sale ad, had managed to fornicate in this situation. The near two hundred pound slime round of a man had managed to stuff his uncut dick into the entrance of his wife's cunt. Our skipper stepped back and laughed and turned around and said "what in the devil's red dick?" and smiled and wiped his eyes. He then scooped the pathetic pale bloodless pecker out of the crater excuse of a cunt that was dead in his trunk.

The bodies were carried in.

He took an old scratched AOL 6.0 disc from his desk and snapped it in half. He used this to cut the ties that helped keep these fucks captive. He had already prepared a broom stick earlier. It was broken in half and situated straight up in his living room floor, being kept sturdy in the middle by weights from his bench set and ropes connected to a leg of his couch and a leg of the bench. She's stripped to bare breasts and cold curtains. He mounts the pale tear crusted wife onto the broom by way of her anus. Though dead, the skip still felt the pain it caused the body, so he was quick and paid no attention to the sounds of the broom settling pass the anus entrance and up in to the stomach. She's now put into Indian style position and tied up again to keep the position. Her ass cheeks are 4 feet off the ground. The slob is still dead on the floor, he's not part of the ritual. He was never supposed to show up in the original script. Only fucktards re-write their stories, so the skip kept the man out of play and the woman centered. The pot belly was to be used as the bell-ringer stand. Where was that bell ringer? In the kitchen he went, like an alter boy sliding back to the foyer of the church. A ring shot across the floor away from him. He had kicked the bell-ringer. The bell-ringer was a signal he used to end his practice with his friends. It reminded him of home, reminded him of the origin of straw stacks placed on camel's backs. Reminded him of the effigy he burned just last year, one of a common man, no one in particular. The bell was placed to it's time and was ready to ring, 15 minutes. He tossed it on the man's belly and sat down on two cushions directly 4 feet in front of the hoisted body he had earlier suffocated and mounted on an old broomstick. His pants slid off, his hat tossed hoping to cover the dead man's dead pecker (he missed), his shirt unbuttoned and tied around his head. He started to stroke himself and recite a line from a book he didn't know much about but could very much remember

"Your conscience is the measure of your honesty of your selfishness. Listen to it carefully."

He stared into the one open eye of the dead mounted bitch, it had lost it's color, it was something boring but it was dead, so his dick head turned swollen and purple. A stolen eyelash from the dead girl was then tossed into his dick hole by his other hand. A sort of homage to the attractiveness the live girl once owned. He recited the line over again, switching it up.

"Your excretement from the asshole is the measure of your honesty of your selfishness. Listen to it carefully"

"Your melting penis is the measure of your honesty of your selfishness. Listen to it fully"

"Your ex-lovers waste is the honesty in which selfishness roots. Listen to it painfully"


RING.
RING.
RING.
RING.
RING.
The timer rings and as he's been trained and practiced to do, a shot of semen flys out of the barrel of his 5 inch penis and with the eyelash it lands in the jungle of bush the girl has grown and he thinks of the time when he was much smaller and he thinks of the time when his dad went one way and he thinks of the time when he was mailed a letter from his pen pal and he thinks about the time when he made people smile and he times himself four times his worth and he still gets no time from anyone and he's a timeless old soul who could make for a scarecrow in any day and age and the time comes when you've got to quit and the time comes when you find fucked up ways to please your sexual needs in a timely fashion. The time is always wrapping the skip and it's wrapping me and you and everyone of us, we'll swim out when our time comes and be together in a time where there's no need for any of us at all, and true measurements will fall in our laps no matter the wrong we've done in this little place and time.