After the Bell

I squeezed and pulled as my body tensed. I could feel it, I was about to cum. It was even more thrilling to be doing it in the bathroom of the locker room at school. I braced myself as I pressed my hand against the wall and leaned back as I thrust my hand faster and faster.

I could see Sarah’s thong sticking out of her shorts in the weight room and I just couldn’t help myself. The way that she looked at me when she looked back and caught me looking at it. I just lost it.

I tried to keep myself quiet but couldn’t help but to let out some gentle moans as I felt the cum bursting out of me. I barely pulled my gray athletics shirt back in time as the warm white liquid pooled up on my belly and began to slide down.

I just sat there for a second before I started to come to my senses. What the fuck was I doing? I missed shower time and now I was going to be late to class. So stupid! I guess sometimes you just can’t fight the urge, though. I had to admit, it was quite the thrill. If anyone asked, I would just say that I had the runs and couldn’t get off the toilet. The classic Taco Bell excuse. Nothing to worry about.

I cleaned up my mess and made my way out of the bathroom and back into the lockers. My towel was in my locker number 327. “A. Perkins,” it said. More like Jerkins, I thought to myself and smirked.

I grabbed my towel and body wash and made my way to the lonely shower. Suddenly, I heard the main door to the hallway slam shut. The bell ring for next period when I was barely 3 strokes in. Why would anyone be in here right now?

I shrugged it off and placed my soap on the little shelf under the shower head. Our school had the showers with four nozzles on each side of a pole and a few poles like that throughout the room. Which of course means that we get to be about an arm’s length away from each other while scrubbing our junk and our buttholes. Pretty degrading, but after working up a sweat it beats going to class smelling like shit.

I turned the water on and let the water start to warm up. A locker slammed shut somewhere nearby causing me to jump. I looked around near the lockers but saw nothing.

I called out, “Hey. Anybody there?”

No answer. Probably somebody messing with me because they knew I was lagging behind. I was just hoping that nobody ran up with a towel rolled up and ready to snap my bare ass. I always hated that shit, and I really didn’t want to deal with it while I was already late to class.

There were no other sounds, so I began to get myself wet and scrub myself down with body wash. Just as I was covered in suds and about to go back into the water to rinse myself off, I saw something that I almost couldn’t believe.

It was Sarah. She had her hair pulled back in a ponytail and was still wearing her clothes from athletics. She smirked at me as she noticed the disbelief on my face. She walked up closer, almost into the shower room and looked at me up and down.

“I saw you looking at me in the weight room, Aaron. Was there something you wanted to do to me?”

She turned around and slowly revealed the thong that was sticking up out of her shorts. She looked back and teased me as she pulled the shorts lower and lower until I could finally see her entire beautifully rounded ass in all of its glory. Holy shit! I can’t believe this is happening to me.

My little buddy wasn’t able to keep his cool and stood at full attention right away. She pulled her shorts back up and walked over to me slowly. She stalked me like a lion chasing a gazelle that was preparing to pounce. She made her way behind me and stopped just out of view. This time as she spoke her voice was no longer the silky sweet voice that she was tantalizing me with just a moment ago. It was deep and twisted. Almost demonic.

It said, “What do you think you’re going to do with that tiny little fucking dick?”

I spun around in terror and humiliation. It wasn’t Sarah that stood behind me. It was Mark Theisman, the quarterback of the football team who loved to give me shit every chance that he could. His face was tense, and he appeared to be fuming.

“Huh? Answer me you little fucken prick! I said what are you gonna do with that tiny little fucking dick?”

I looked down at my member, now fully flaccid and even a little bit shrunken from the cold as I stood outside of the water.

“I uhhh… But you… It wasn’t you, I… I don’t understand.”

His fury turned into a sadistic grin. The rest of the football team began to file out from around the locker. I was surrounded.

“You don’t have to understand Aaron. The only thing that you need to understand is this.”

He reached into his backpack and dropped it revealing what was left in his hand. A large pair of scissors. In horror I looked around the room and realized every football player was carrying a pair as well and they were getting closer and closer.

“We’re gonna cut your fucking dick off Aaron.”

He opened the scissors slowly and closed them at once. The noise of the blades slicing against each other made my balls tingle and my body cringe. He repeated the motion, and the football players did as well. They continued their slow approach and opened and closed the scissors rhythmically like the beat of a drum.

Mark was just feet away as I decided I couldn’t take anymore. I began pleading and crying. I fell to the floor and curled into a ball. I covered my eyes and blocked my junk with my legs and my arms. Just when I felt like they were about to be right on top of me a new voice came from the spot where Mark had been standing.

“Aaron? Aaron, is that you? What are you doing on the ground like that, darling?”

I uncovered my eyes and looked up. It was Miss Ferris the athletic director. She helped me up and looked very concerned as she looked around to see what had shocked me. Seeing nothing she walked out of the shower and looked the other way.

In the same sweet and concerned voice she said, “Go ahead and finish rinsing off. I’ll take you to the nurse after you get yourself dressed.”

I did as she said and got the remainder of the soap off with the shower head that was still running from before all this craziness began. I closed my eyes to wash the soap out of my hair and let the water run on my face for a second.

I said, “Thank you so much Miss Ferris, I don’t even know what’s going on with me. I was just running a little behind because I was in the restroom and…”

I took my face out of the water and wiped the water from my eyes. Her face was staring directly at me, the eyes were entirely white, and her body was still facing the complete opposite direction.

She spoke in a high-pitched whiny voice that sounded like a combination of breaking glass and nails on a chalkboard. “Oh, you don’t have to thank me, Aaron. The fun has only just begun.”

As she shrieked with delight and her face contorted, she let out a howling maniacal cackle. I bolted for the door, slipping, and nearly falling the whole way there, but never turning back.

Walls. Singing Bushes.

If walls could talk maybe they could have alerted someone as Alex lay sprawled out convulsing on the carpet spewing saliva across his face as his eyes rolled back into the black depths of his poisoned skull. If walls could talk perhaps he would’ve been saved from flopping around percussively—his arms striking the carpet like heavy drum sticks to a pair of tom-toms—and gasping for air like a blankly staring, shored crappie. 

The mop-haired carpet could have been saved from soaking up the sudsy vomit overflowing from his gurgling mouth. 

A court ordered stay at the sober-living-house couldn’t save Alex. Nothing could truly save Alex because there were two opposing things from which he needed saving. Drugs and alcohol saved him from having to deal with the horror of life; drugs and alcohol killed him. 

Damned if you do, and damned if you don’t. 

A plastic baggie of leftover smack was smushed in the back pocket of Alex’s jeans under the weight of his bouncing ass. He kept flailing around like that until he finally stopped for good. 

The sober-living-house didn’t seem to help many of its residents, the walls probably thought. The bushes lining the house hid within their bulbous canopies an ever-growing pile of booze bottles; the most popular choices 40oz. Budweisers and pints of Wild Turkey. Those bottles lay in there clinking together like chimes on windy nights whenever the weather shook the foliage until one of the residents, desperate for a little cash, would collect them—anxiety and mental anguish building as they gathered into a large trash bag each of those chiming bottles—and haul them off to be recycled, hoping not to be seen by the landlord, a cop, or their sponsor. 

If walls could talk they could have communicated to the subsequent homeowner upon finding hidden in the back of that deep closet in Alex’s former room cold as the grave a child’s water-color painting that said ‘To Dad, Happy Father’s Day.’ The walls could have maybe explained that the artwork wasn’t left there by an apathetic father moving out of the house. Alex wasn’t apathetic in a paternal sense; he cared—he experienced anguish at the reality of his shitty parenthood. No, he wasn’t apathetic. He was merely an uncontrollable junkie who had managed to get himself killed before making it out of the sober-living-house. The walls could have explained that Alex didn’t want to leave his kids painting at the house, he had just fucked up. Again. This time for the last time.

If the walls in that small rectangular bedroom could talk they could have explained that it wasn’t a piss stain dripping down the side of the wall, it was a dark yellow candle that had overflowed—much like Alex’s vomiting mouth—after he had passed out and then perished. 

That candle had burned for hours, the smoky aroma of Birchwood Beach fusing with the growing scent of bodily fluids and death. The Kentucky spring breeze blowing in through the open window couldn’t mask it; that stench would eventually fill the rest of the house, after which Alex’s roommates would come and find him lying lifeless, staring upward at them as they entered the room with the vacant eyes and opened mouth of an expired toad. 

They would cry, not entirely unselfishly. They would know that Alex could have been them; they would know they too could soon be dead. 

In the back of their minds they may have even felt angry at Alex. They might have been planning to get buzzed off later that evening, loading up a pipe or sniffing a pill or throwing an emptied bottle of Turkey into the bush. They wouldn’t be able to do that now, not without further regret and self-loathing, at least. 

The hangover would now be worse.

If walls could talk the subsequent owner would have known as he painted coat after coat of fumy satin white over the candle wax stains and ripped up the carpet that this was a room that had seen pain. The walls could have explained as he assembled the crib that decisions are important and loneliness can be deadly. 

If walls could talk they could have alerted that subsequent homeowner, called Oscar, of the reason for the baby’s continued crying. Those walls could have told Oscar, a first-time parent, that the baby wasn’t being unreasonably noisy. The baby wasn’t simply reacting to new experience. The window—that one in the bedroom above the singing bushes—was blowing in with its breeze the specter of a lost father. A spirit with a clear job to do though no way of doing it. 

The baby wailed and shook the brittle old crib, one likely too old to again reuse, but one Oscar had gotten recycled and was all he could afford. Oscar would enter Alex’s former bedroom and comfort his newborn, his head throbbing as he remembered the bottle he had thrown in the bush earlier that afternoon. He had heard a soft clink as the bottle landed, but he didn’t look inside. He hadn’t noticed the entirety of the collection.

If walls could talk they could have told Oscar. If the baby could yet talk, maybe they also could have explained. It wasn’t the wind; it wasn’t the child being unreasonable—it was Alex darting around the room, bouncing off the newly painted walls and screaming through the restlessness of an unquiet grave. 

If walls could talk, they could have told Oscar that Alex was aware of the painting in the closet; he knew it was still there. 

He simply couldn’t tell Oscar about it. He couldn’t explain his situation. The baby noticed him, but he couldn’t explain to the baby, and the baby couldn’t yet talk.

Alex had no way of lifting the painting. He had no method of delivering it to his son. His son, who gazed out his own window every evening, inhaling the crisp breeze, fragrant of both earth and fuel—both nature and construction—wondering where his dead father might now be, if anywhere. 

If walls could talk they could have told Oscar what to do with that painting when he finally found it deep in that cold closet. Walls can’t talk, though, so Oscar, shaking his head at the neglect of some parents, threw the painting in the trash. 

The painting featured a family holding hands, a house, and a sun. Several bushes surrounded the house.

The Building Blocks Of Life

“The funny thing about DNA is that it belongs to you, something unique that makes you who you are. A series of complex organic building blocks that only the smartest of people can tear apart and put back together to tell us how we’re built. Even though it is so uniquely you, it is also your mom, dad, grandparents, and siblings. It is the culmination of the short-term evolution that your family has gone through just to create you. That’s how I always thought of it, anyway. But sometimes other people don’t see it the same way. Some people don’t see DNA and the miracle of evolution at all. They see a small child writhing around, covered in the blood of their mom, who didn’t make it. These people see a baby screaming and crying as if unaware of the destruction they have just caused, how impossible they have just made life.” 

“Please, why are you doing this? I have a family now. I love my children with all my heart. Please let me go. Just untie me and walk out the front door. No one will ever have to know you broke in. It will be like this never happened. Please, please, I beg you.” 

“Uh uh uh. The story wasn’t finished yet. We need to listen to the whole story. As I was saying, sometimes people just don’t appreciate the miracle of children and all of the science that actually goes into creating a child inside the human body. Half of the mother’s DNA, she has half of her father’s DNA, and it just goes and goes in quarters and eighths and sixteenths of all of the people who came before. It’s fascinating, really, how you are yourself but also everyone else. Technically, you should be half your father and half your mother, personality and all. 

That’s when all of these “scientists” come in and tell you about nature versus nurture and all this other horse shit that is really just guesswork. No one can really truly prove that your surroundings determine your personality. I thought that the day I met my parents was the day I would finally figure out for sure that these psychologists were just taking stabs in the dark. I, who grew up in nine different houses and hopped from dinner table to dinner table with all sorts of families, and all kinds of lives, I would be just like my parents. I would be the proof that DNA is everything, you and Mom were two halves of me, and I was the sum of you.”

“What are you even talking about? Please just untie me, and we can talk through this like adults. You want to know if you’re half of me, right? We can go to get dinner, and we can talk, and we can be a family again. We can talk about your mother. I’m sure you’re just like her. You look just like her.”

“Stop talking. Didn’t anyone ever tell you it isn’t nice to interrupt people? No one ever told me that. You never told me that, Dad. You never told me anything, actually. Do you talk to your precious little kids now, Gary? What was so different about these ones? Did you like them better because they didn’t take Sarah away from you? Did you think about me when she was giving birth? How you could lose a second wife? Go through giving away a child all over again? Well, I lost her too, Dad. I lost Mom too. But I also lost you. I lost both people who made me who I am. I need to take a deep breath…”

“I just couldn’t do it without her, please. I loved your mom so much. I was just too young to do it alone. I am so, so sorry. You’re older now; I’m older now. We can still be family.”

“No. What are you not understanding? Now, open your mouth. If you can’t shut up on your own, I’ll help you. Yup, mhm, open for the airplane. Do you like the taste of that? Haha, yea, I bet you do. I just grabbed it out of the dirty rag pile in my kitchen. Either way, not knowing you or Mom really did help me in the end. I needed to find you; I needed to figure out why I’m like this. It turns out that if you’re an orphan, colleges really love you. They love you even more when they realize that your research has some deep-rooted connection to your past. They think it’ll make you work harder. They even gave me $2,500 to try and get a deeper understanding of our DNA. They helped me pay for a DNA test and even found you for me just so I could really get down to the roots of my building blocks, the things that made me. Now don’t worry; all of my scalpels are fresh out of the packaging. You’ll feel a tiny pinch, but then you don’t feel anything. Isn’t that so nice? Now stay still; let’s find out what DNA looks like in real life.”

Small Treasures

Dalton pulled out on another long run into the early darkness.  Just weeks earlier, he was making runs for a mid-sized roofing distributor, before the begging call of the open road howled and cried much too loud for him to ignore.  Also, the expectation of at least $175,000 made the decision fairly easy.  So there he was, on the road again after 15 years.  Dalton had gotten married and had a kid in those years that he took off from the road.  He grew accustomed to being at home, almost in a chain-like manner.  His necessities were his bed, his video games, his couch, his food, and his family.  None of which were in his new, temporary home.  As Dalton pondered his new path in life, he looked around his small apartment on wheels, and sighed.

There was a huge reason why Dalton didn’t want to leave on this run.  It was indeed his first run back, and he was anxious, but that wasn’t the underlying issue. The problem was, it was close to Valentine’s Day, and Dalton always got some special attention downstairs on that day.  It also seemed to Dalton, the better the gift, the better the blowjob.

Days earlier, he scoured the internet looking for the perfect gift.  He found a few small items that were nice, but he still needed that ultimate treasure.  Dalton had to be on the lookout for the special gift that would insure him the most mind-blowing head of his life.

The next day, while getting gas, Dalton spotted a busy flea market across the street. He thought, with all those vendors, I’m sure to find something.  Once parked in his designated area for the night, he was free to check out his surroundings.  His first stop was the flea market.  Dalton walked aisle after aisle searching for the perfect gift.  Just then, trouvaille!, he thought, as he eyed the most intricate piece of jewelry he had ever seen.  It was a gold pendant with the birthstone of his wife.

The aged lady looked blind, like she shouldn’t be running the booth.  Not sure if he could even get her attention, Dalton waved his hand and spoke loud.

“How much for this piece, ma’am?”

“All jewelry, ten dollars!”

Dalton quickly threw down $20 and began to walk off.  He could hear the lady yelling from behind, “Stop!  You get one more piece of jewelry.”

Dalton got back to his truck and examined the pendant.  It was spectacular.  It was faceted and cut with tremendous detail.  How he was able to buy it for $20 baffled him immensely, but he wasn’t looking in any animal’s mouths.

Since Dalton had the perfect pendant, all he needed now was a necklace.  He knew that his next stop was a decent-sized regional city, so he assumed that he would have numerous options to complete his gift.

Everything fell into place perfectly the following day.  Dalton was able to make his drop, get his new load, and pull into a mall parking lot one hour before it closed.  He walked inside and located the directory, and made his way to the closest jewelry store.  A store associate greeted Dalton as he entered. 

“Good evening, sir. What are we looking for today?”

Dalton pulled out a small cloth from his pocket, carefully unfolded it, and allowed the associate to view the pendant. 

“I need a necklace to go with this amazing piece. It’s for my wife. It’s kind of an important gift. It needs to match perfectly.”

The associate’s eyes widened in appreciation of the stunning pendant. 

“That’s quite the piece you have there. It is absolutely gorgeous. If I’m not mistaken, it appears to be from the Edwardian era. If so, it has some age on it. Regardless, I’m sure you paid quite a hefty price for it.”

Dalton let the largest shit-eating grin grow on his face, as his eyes lit up with joy. 

“Actually, I only paid $20 for it, from an insane lady, on the side of a country road, just yesterday.”

The associate could only shake his head in disbelief, his mouth literally agape. 

“I am utterly speechless. Nonetheless, let’s find you a necklace for this masterpiece.”

After only about 5 minutes, they both agreed on an immaculate, white gold necklace that accentuated the pendant impeccably.  After a final inspection, payment and gift wrapping, the associate handed the bag across the counter. Dalton smiled, as he visualized the end result his perfect gift would get him. 

As he left the jewelry store, he heard music, shouting, and clapping coming from another wing of the mall, and went to check it out.  When he turned the corner, he saw a dance team performing for a small crowd.  The girls seemed to range in ages from high school to college, with a few a little older.

Dalton watched, as the girls chanted, leapt, and tossed each other high in the air.  He thought, Shit, this is some free entertainment.  These little bitches are talented!  And a few of them are fuckin hot.  

Dalton got a lemonade from a nearby kiosk while he continued to ogle at the dance squad.  For the finale of the routine, a small-statured, fit female ran through the center of the group, as if she had an invisible forcefield around her.  She proceeded to perform flip after flip, before landing gracefully on her feet, at the final note of the song.  

The girls were all given towels, and began to break off and conversate about their performance in the routine and what they were doing afterwards.  Dalton was left basically dragging his jaw from the ground, putting his eyes back in their sockets, and wiping copious amounts of drool from his mouth, all while hiding a massive erection with possible precum drying his pisshole to his boxers.  Needless to say, this little, sexy woman left quite the impression on Dalton, and he had to talk to her.  This was who he dreamt of at night.  He thought, she is absolutely perfect, as he  approached his pint-sized fantasy in real life.

“Hi, I’m Dalton.  I really enjoyed the show. I didn’t see it all, but I saw the end, and you were amazing! Flippin your little ass all around.”

“Thanks. I’m Tricia. Yeah, I’m their coach. I make an appearance at the end of the routine.  I only do this for fun actually, and to stay in shape. My real gig is at night, at the Fireplace.”

Dalton was oblivious, but quickly realized that the Fireplace was a strip club, and Tricia was the regular feature at this club.  They talked and cut up for about thirty minutes, before mall security started making their rounds to clear and close the mall.  They bid each other goodbyes, all while Dalton searched the internet for places to park his rig around Fireplace.  He told Tricia that he would be there later tonight.  She motioned for Dalton to lean down.  He did, and she kissed him on the cheek and whispered, “I can’t wait”, into his ear.

Back in his sleeper, Dalton couldn’t get Tricia out of his mind.  He loved his wife and loved his life, but the beckoning call of curiosity was loud and prevailing.  Plus, Dalton thought, I’m only going to see her dance.  That was enough to persuade him to shower in the truck stop, brush his teeth and floss, buy some cologne and condoms, and get $1000 out in cash.

Dalton arrived at Fireplace a little before Midnight, when Tricia was scheduled to take the stage.  When he paid the cover and sat down, she wasn’t dancing.  In fact, there weren’t any dancers dancing.  Ten to fifteen guys sat at the bar and random tables sucking their beers and looking half defeated and half murderous, awaiting the next offering of flesh.  

Then, from over the music, originating from the back of the building, but getting constantly louder, Dalton heard Tricia’s voice.

“Fuck that! No, ya’ll gonna pay me! I’ll tear this motherfucker up!”

At this point, Tricia was in the main area, near the front, and all eyes were on her.  The man that followed close behind, repeatedly offering excuses, from low attendance, to a raise in rent.

“Fuck that. I’m supposed to get paid tonight and I’m getting paid.”

Something inside Dalton came alive at that moment.  The love of a thousand years amiss overtook his being, and lust fueled his confidence.  He stood and made his way toward the apparent manager.

“Listen here. You are going to pay this woman the money you owe her, or we will tear this motherfucker up. You got that? You can’t treat her differently just because she’s a midget.”

Tricia smiled at Dalton, and said, “Don’t call me the ‘M’ word. That’s your only warning.”

Dalton nodded, then turned back toward the man, unphased.

The man nodded, pulled out a wad of cash and paid Tricia more than he owed her, with a russian scowl on his face.

“But you not come back.”

Tricia took the cash, counted it, held up a middle finger, and walked out, loudly addressing Dalton.

“Let’s go, boo. Rooms on me. You better put it on me.”

Once in the room, they had drinks that were purchased before arrival, and everything was going perfectly and flowing naturally.  They talked about each other’s lives, and flirted while doing so.  By the third bourbon, Tricia was already half naked on Dalton’s lap, thanking him for his support earlier in the night.

“Thank you daddy.  That means the world to me. I think you need a reward,” she said, as she stroked his chest and started slowly sliding down between his legs.

Tricia positioned herself between Dalton’s legs, maneuvered his pants down, and accepted him into her mouth.  Dalton was overtaken by extreme pleasure.  His filter was off, and he blurted out something that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

“Goddamn, your little midget ass can suck some di..”

Before Dalton could get the word ‘dick’ out, Tricia’s eyes glowed red and she chomped down with the force of ten great whites, severing his member.  Dalton was left bleeding, cockless, and in shock, as she comedically scurried off with his dick in hand.

Dalton had officially lost it all.  His wife, his family, his entire life left with his penis.  But even more tragic was that some shark-toothed, evil little stripper ensured that Dalton would never get another blowjob again. 

The Lunatic

Juanito stopped by the Super Bar on the way home, he drank enough cheap brandy and draft beer to knock down a mule or two. Then he walked to a bookstore looking for something to help him escape. He always went to the poetry section first, to see if they had any books by him. Some tall skinny guy was bent over showing his ass crack looking at bottom shelf books. When he stood upright and farted, Juanito wanted to bury his steel toed boot up the dude’s ass. When the dude bent over he farted again, Juanito elbowed him in the kidneys. What was worse than his fart stench was his sweat, urine, dog shit slimed shoes, and he reeked like an old douche bag. Juanito wished his sense of smell was worse than his sense of humor.  

“Hey motherfucker, you should clean up your act.” Smelly boy looked like he’d been hit in the head with a twenty-pound sledge hammer. He stopped and spoke with the clerks and they all looked at Juanito. He just smiled and gave them all a little wave. After finding one book by Chekov, he headed for home. The summer night was like a hobo’s armpit. Juanito stopped for a six pack of tall boy Budweiser. 

Juanito was trying to catch forty winks, it sounded like his lady, Lupe and their cat were wrestling or having sex at the foot end of the bed.  

“Hey, I’m trying to sleep. The damn machine noise from the post office letter sorter is ricocheting inside my screaming skull.” 

The cat meowed like a Husqvarna mower was chewing and gnawing him into pieces. He thought Lupe was committing murder and mayhem. “Hold still, you little son of a bitch,” she said. 

“What in the hell are you doing woman?” Juanito asked.  

“I’m trying to clean the cat’s ass. He took a nasty dump in the litter box and now wants to rub his ass all over my white down comforter.” 

“Just quit corn holing that cat, please. The fucking zip code madness won’t leave me alone tonight.”  

 “Why do you act like your hero, Bukowski?” 

He yelled, “Bukowski can kiss my brown ass!”

Juanito was soon snoring like a constipated chainsaw trying to cut through an anvil.

***

From: Sex Doll Gumbo

“Lords Of The Afterglow: Renegades and Noblemen is a collection of sixteen bizarre, precarious, as well as comical Bohemian tales of adventurous mayhem. While working as a drug smuggler for a Mexican Cartel, Santiago, a recovering addict, ex-con, womanizer, gambler, and ill-fated pilgrim encounters situations of irresistible misfortune. Adding chaos to these events is his ex-cellmate, loose cannon, drug and alcohol fueled Colombian partner, Johnny Rico. It is an expedition into twisted and hilarious states of mind and body. Every story in this collection centers on the working relationship and unique friendship of these ‘Dos Chiflados’ (Two Whacky Guys). Lords Of The Afterglow is a must read!”

— Jesse James Kennedy, author of Missouri Homegrown, Tijuana Mean, and Black Hills Reckoning

Judge Santiago Burdon gives us another collection of short stories in adventurous mayhem with his latest book, Lords of the Afterglow: Renegades and Noblemen. Paul Gilliland, Editor Publisher of Southern Arizona Press, is excited to announce the release of this assortment of Bohemian tales with razor sharp slices of vivid and lurid lives that are brutal, tragic and painfully funny. Set against a backdrop of down and dirty incidents resulting from Santiago and Johnny Rico’s precarious work in the drug world’s sleazy underbelly. The stories are well written and Santiago’s prose is clear, the language concise: spiced with the Spanish of his streetwise bilingualism. One reviewer described it as “a mesmerizing literary journey that lingers in your thoughts long after you’ve read the final page.” There is no doubt you will experience a similar reaction after reading. Pick up your copy today!

BUY A COPY HERE

Decay

My head throbbed. My ear was full; oily liquid drained from it continuously. I opened the glovebox and popped some acetaminophen; that stuff seemed to work better than ibuprofen or naproxen. I shoved my pinker finger into my ear, pressing hard against the wall of the canal; I could hear and feel that rumbling noise from within my eardrum, as if a bubbling volcano. I had gotten regular ear-infections since I was a kid, but this was different. The symptoms were too diverse in nature. My ear ached, my head hurt, stinging pain filled my furthest back, top molar. Some TMJ sort of situation was developing in my jaw, which caught and clicked with each closure of my mouth. Eating was a hilarity, considering the frequent rapidity with which percussive music sprang from within my chin.

I clutched my face, pressing hard into the perceived central locus of the pain. I massaged the muscles near my jaw; I also massaged those encircling my skull – I had learned from a YouTube video that that muscle, called the temporalis, also affected the ear and the jaw. That seemed to help – at least I thought that it did. It could have been purely a psychologically manufactured placebo, but that was fine with me, too. It felt like it helped.

I opened and closed my mouth several times – the clicking, quickening its pace, sounded like a piece of paper crumbling within a clenched fist – and the pain resided briefly. I felt better. I continued my morning commute to work.

I lived in Kentucky, but worked in Cincinnati. Traffic was variable, but it usually wasn’t too bad. The bottleneck preceding entry into the Brent Spence Bridge – Cincinnati’s primary artery – was always clogged, but even that wasn’t too bad. It was a leisurely drive, for the most part. I tried to focus on my audio book. I was listening to a dueling biography of both Grant and Lee; I was trying to broaden my knowledge of history, and the Civil War was more of a gray area that I would have liked it to be.

Looking out from my opened window while traversing the Brent Spence, I saw through the morning fog the muddy Ohio. It looked gross, as usual – someone needed to take care of it. It was rotting away – infected. Its dirty currents collided, as if in grinding response. 

I made it across the bridge. The rest of the drive, from the river up the hill to Clifton, was easy breezy. I passed the Museum Center, and Duke Energy – the locus from which every resident of greater Cincinnati was on an eternal, monthly basis, scammed.

I turned onto the off-ramp, at the Hopple Street exit. Camp Washington Chili sat vacant across the street. It would fill-up, soon enough – it was one of the lucky local businesses which had made it seemingly unscathed through the pandemic. 

There was always traffic outside Good Samaritan Hospital – a name so hilariously ironic for a hospital it would be funny if it weren’t so horrifying. I thought about my tooth. It ached, as if in response.

“There’s someone in that hospital who could fix my stupid tooth, and ear, and jaw,” I thought to myself, “but who knows what it would cost me…“

My insurance wasn’t reliable. I was afraid to go to the doctor.

The gate to my parking garage was broken. Each time I scanned my pass, it ignored me, so I had to park on the street. That situation occurred with frustrating regularity. I didn’t park in any of the on-campus garages – they were too expensive. I parked at this privately owned garage just off campus. It was cheap, though unreliable. I had to park on the street a few times every month. I would call the management and bitch at them. They would reimburse my street-side parking costs, most of the time.

My tooth ached. 

I shut and locked the door. Dodging remnant trash – mostly beer cans and shattered glass, from party-minded college kids – I made my way to my classroom. Standing in the circle at the center of the University of Cincinnati campus – located directly outside of my classroom – I looked up to the proud, swiping bearcat statue. He was atop a thickly sculpted tree branch. He looked angry. He had massive, unsheathed canines – perhaps he had a toothache, too. I chuckled at that, then put my head down in embarrassment and walked to the door of my building. They slid open automatically. I hated mornings. 

My tooth continued throbbing. It was worse than usual, today. Upon twisting my key and pulling open the door to my department, the automatic lights awoke. No one was there yet, not even the housekeeping lady. I pushed my lunchbox into the fridge, shoved shut the grating door – which was off-axis and didn’t like to close correctly – and turned toward my classroom, grabbing my jaw along the way, opening and closing my mouth a few times – hearing that frustrating, crackling click.

I was tired. I flipped open and turned on my laptop. I looked at my gradebook. So many students; so many essays to grade. They didn’t pay me to grade anything; they didn’t pay me to do squat, outside of teach the class. I guess they imagined that that work completed itself. It didn’t, though – it was a buttload of work. Buttload of free work. I wasn’t even worth decent insurance, to them.

One of my students jiggled the doorknob, peering through the narrow slit of the window into my classroom. Class didn’t begin for another thirty minutes – no way I was letting him in; I had stuff to get done. I had unpaid grading to do. I ignored him. My tooth ached:

“He’s trying to get in; I’m trying to get out!” came an internal voice, as if from nowhere.

“Wha, what?” I thought to myself. What was that? I gripped the armrests of my twirling office chair, sweaty palms imprinting themselves on the black plastic upon removal. I grabbed my face with both hands, like that kid from Home Alone:

“What is wrong with me?” I thought miserably.

“I’m what’s wrong with you!” came another voice from inside, “You’ve got to let me out! I’ve got shit to do! Big shit to take care of! You’ve got to let me the hell out of this dark, clicking prison! Your jaw bones crunch on and on, like a morbid, irregular clock! It’s fucking irritating!”

I put my hands to my mouth and muffled a scream. I pulled my phone from my pocket, inverted the camera, and took a long look at myself in the mirror. I was scared – frantic. I opened my mouth wide – the clicking crunching and reverberating off the walls of my cheeks like crawling, brittle cockroaches – and looked for my aching tooth. I shouldn’t have been able to see it, but I did! It was moving! I swear it was moving! It was wiggling around as if to dislodge itself:

“Yeah, that’s right!” came a voice from inside “I’m coming out whether you like it or not; you may as well expedite the process!”

I could no longer muffle the terror. I shrieked. I began sobbing and squealing. I backed up, as if to separate myself from my tooth, in my current state of stupidity not realizing the futility in the attempt. There was only one way to escape. I shoved my left hand – my dominant hand – deep into the back of my mouth.

I pushed my hand in too far – at first gagging and coughing, now down on my knees, spitting on the floor. I grabbed hold of the toxic tooth, twisting and yanking it – now screaming out in pain; that scream muffled by my hand still shoved inside my mouth.

The tooth came out surprisingly easily. I dislodged it and slung it against the door. It made a strangely noisy, resounding thump against the wood, falling to the dirty tile below:

“God dammit!” said my molar, “You weren’t supposed to drop me on this dirty ass floor!” Dust and dirt covered its yellow enamel.

I shrieked, scrambling backward spider-like away from the door.

The doorknob jiggled again. At first thinking it was just another student, I realized that wasn’t the case upon hearing a twisting incision of a key into the keyhole. The door swung open, swinging over top my tooth – the door’s vacuous air sucking it slightly aloft from its place on the tile, spinning counter-clockwise to the edge of the wall. The custodian, Winslow walked in:

“Hey!” he said jovially before witnessing my pathetic figure slouching on the ground, “What? What’s wrong? Let me help you!”

He knelt beside me. Blood poured from the locus of my former tooth to the dusty tile below. It stained my khakis; it stained my white, nice button-up shirt. It solidified in the dust and dirt of the filthy floor. I coughed again; more blood expelled, dripping from my sobbing, bearded chin.

Winslow looked frantically for something with which to clean the mess, noticing a box of tissues at my desk. He darted in that direction before halting abruptly:

“Stop right where you are!” said my tooth from the ground, now standing – its infected roots acting as decrepit limbs, “I’m a tooth! I need a new mouth, and it’s going to be yours! You take care of yourself; I can tell! You’re a healthy bastard! Not like my previous landlord, over there! So open wide; I’m coming in!”

Winslow fainted with a whimper. My molar laughed, waddling over to his passed-out, sprawling figure.

Somehow climbing atop Winslow, my tooth then turned to look at me. It didn’t have a face – no mouth or eyes – but I somehow still recognized that it was looking at me:

“You’re not worth a fuck!” It said, “Not a single little shit! I’m on to bigger and better things!”

It then crawled into Winslow’s mouth – which was agape, drooling spittle. My tooth slid in and wedged its decaying roots deep into Winslow’s gums. He opened and closed his mouth a few times and clutched his jaw, as if in pained recognition. The tooth spoke to me from inside:

“It’s comfy as hell in here! Yeah, I can get used to this!”

I screamed again. Blood from my mouth now painted the room. The door jiggled. One of my students peered in, wanting to come to class early. 

I had so much grading to do…

One-Star Dungeon

“Does that hurt, you fuckin’ piece of shit?” asked Dwayne, grinding the tip of his cigarette into his victim’s bare chest.

Anson knew he shouldn’t reply, but his anger was even greater than his pain.

“Do you know any words besides ‘fuck’ and ‘shit,’ you illiterate douchebag?” asked Anson. “You’ve already used both of those words half a dozen times. If you’re going to kill me, at least don’t bore me to death with your eighth-grade vocabulary.”

“What the fuck, man?” Dwayne yelled. “I mean, Jesus Christ! You shitty … you asshole …”

“Still shit-related, I’m afraid.” Anson smirked behind the bag that covered his face.

Dwayne punched him in the head.

Anson forced a laugh. He had a new idea. If he couldn’t escape, he could at least taunt his captor into killing him quickly.

“You’re laughing?” asked Dwayne in disbelief.

“I’m not laughing with you; I’m laughing at you,” Anson explained.

Silence.

“You don’t even understand the joke,” sighed Anson. “I have occasionally had nightmares about dying like this, but my dreams always involved a brilliant serial killer who had successfully eluded capture for years. You probably couldn’t even avoid a parking ticket.”

“Hey, you … you bastard!” said Dwayne. “I’ve killed two people besides you! And no one has caught me yet!”

“I salute you for using a new insult, but I’m afraid I don’t believe you about the murders. You’re just too damned stupid.”

“Stupid?!” Dwayne’s fingers closed around the handle of his favorite skewer. Almost without thinking, he plunged it into his prisoner’s chest.

Anson felt the searing shaft of pain, while noting with regret that the weapon had penetrated the right side of his rib cage rather than the left. Even in anger, his tormentor had reflexively avoided driving the skewer through his heart, which would have ended things too quickly.

With considerable difficulty, Anson suppressed his scream. He tensed his muscles against the coarse ropes that bound him to the chair and spoke with measured contempt.

“Now I’m certain you’ve never done this before. Any experienced killer would have shown his victim the tray full of glittering metal instruments before using one of them. I’m afraid your knowledge of psychological terror is severely lacking.”

A hand grabbed the top of the burlap sack covering Anson’s head and yanked it off. The rough cloth sandpapered a patch of skin off the tip of his nose. Anson hoped it wouldn’t bleed.

“There!” screamed Dwayne. “There’s my tray of instruments! I was going to show them to you earlier but you made me mad!”

“You were already mad. As mad as a hatter.”

“Alice in Wonderland? The tea party? What are you talking about?”

Maybe he’s not as stupid as he seems, thought Anson. I must be careful.

With the bag off his head, Anson was able to take in his surroundings. An unfinished basement with a bricked-up window. Raw pine beams running overhead. An old white water heater a few feet to his right. He was dismayed to see that the heater was lightly speckled with crimson dots. His captor apparently did have some experience in this line of work.

Anson sniffed the air. He had released neither his bladder nor his bowels into his pants, for which he was grateful, but he smelled something decidedly unpleasant. He looked up at his host and noticed the large sweat stains under his arms.

“God, you stink,” Anson said. “Didn’t your mother teach you to wash up for guests?”

Dwayne gave him a brutal open-handed slap across the face.

“I use deodorant!” he bellowed. “But I sweat a lot. And you’re heavier than you look. It was hard to get you into the trunk of my Crown Vic.”

“Hey, Stinky, you’re no lightweight yourself. When’s the last time you saw the inside of a gym? Or a shower?”

Anson was hoping for an explosion but was met with silence. Too long a silence.

“My name is Dwayne, not Stinky,” his captor said at last, with chilling calmness. “I don’t mind telling you my name because you’re never leaving this basement. You’re not in control here. I am.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

“You’re just a little piece of shit who’s going to suffer like the fucker you are.”

“Oh, Jesus, we’re back to ‘shit’ and ‘fuck’ again. You’re a bore and this is not a well-run dungeon. One star. Would not recommend.”

Dwayne balled his fists and knelt in front of his captive. His face moved close to Anson’s, like a nervous teenager leaning in for a first kiss.

“You are going to die. Slowly and painfully. You don’t seem to understand that, you shitty fuck.”

A tear squeezed out of Anson’s eye and rolled down his bruised cheek. He opened his mouth and faint raspy sounds emerged.

Dwayne leaned closer, hoping to hear his broken captive’s pleas for mercy.

Anson’s head snaked forward. His open mouth clamped shut on Dwayne’s lips, teeth slicing into soft flesh. He bit deeply and felt the sticky warm blood as Dwayne’s lips tore away.

Anson slurped the lips into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed as his captor shrieked blood into the air.

“You shitty ’uck! You ’ucking ’uck!”

Anson smiled into the bloody teeth that shone from the lipless mouth.

“Well, at least I took one word out of your pathetically limited vocabulary.”

Anson felt the skewer pierce his heart and laughed.

Another Day in Paradise

It ended up being one of those shitfuck days that everybody in the office dreads. The head honcho was in town for his bimonthly assessment, and heads had already started rolling.

Bogok was slinking towards the water cooler, hoping the office manager, Girach, wouldn’t see him. She could be a real fuck when she wanted to be.

“Hey guys, did you hear the news?” hissed Bogok as his eyes darted from side to side. “The big man is here, and he’s not happy!”

“What the fuck, Bogok?” Do you seriously think we don’t know? ” Valvollan responded, not even attempting to hide his disdain for Bogok.

“Not today, Bogok, not today,” Ogmon interjected. He was always trying to smooth things over. He was a real company man at heart. OK, a real company demon without a beating heart.

“Shut the fuck up, you ass-kissing sycophant.” snapped Valvollan. “You two are the bean counters down here! I’m the one who has to go out into the field and get shit done.”

“Easy, big guy, do you want mommy to come over there and kiss it better for you?” Tralvuraun had just walked over in her sexy office pantsuit, which made all the men’s heads turn except Arnaruch. He was the most open and, hands down, the gayest demon in the office.

“Piss off Tralvuraun.” “I’m not in the mood for your dirty, sexy mouth right now,” snapped Valvollan.

“HA! That’ll be the day,” laughed Tralvuraun. “I’m only one away from meeting my monthly quota. Where are you at Valvo-Vag?”

You could hear Arnaruch laughing in the distance. “Ha, she called him Vag.”

“You fuckers can all go to heaven for all I care.” Valvollan found it hard to hold back the tears at this point.

Without even so much as trying to hide his disdain for hetero-demons, Arnaruch, almost laughing out loud, singled Val out: “Sweet zombie Jesus Christ, Valvollan, are you about to cry?” Arnaruch was now blatantly pointing across the office at him as he continued, “Demon the fuck up already; the big man is only 11 minutes away!”

Valvollan’s anxiety levels skyrocketed. The pissy odour emanating from his ghastly pores told every demon in the office that he was panicking. Valvollan had wasted most of the month topside, getting it on with loose women while doing a shit ton of blow. He wasn’t a blow addict. He was a topside addict. There was discussion that the company would put him in rehab for a few millennia.

Ogmon piped in, “You know any soul will do right. I hear they are even letting you guys collect demon souls now. Why not just take Bogok’s and tell them that more is on its way, but this one is fresh. Well, fresh-ish,” he said, pointing his thumb at Bogok.

Bogok reacted shyly, “Hey?” as he tried to hide the tear that had just fallen from his eye from his coworkers at the water cooler. “You guys can be real angel fuckers; you know that!”

When Bogok started crying, Tralvuraun gave him a napkin. She winked and continued, “Don’t you worry about those two, Bogok! I’ve got your back.” As he reached out to take it, Tralvuraun continued, “That’s weird. Hey Bogok, does that napkin smell like chloroform? “

As the world around him started to blur and darken, Bogok could hear the hysterical laughter of his once-former coworkers. “Fuug yuuulll!” was the last thing he said as his putrid, pear-shaped demon body slumped to the ground.

“It’s a shame that we never really perish but are merely reborn at the bottom of the corporate food chain. Ha!” Ogmon had never understood comedy.

Tralvuraun strode over to her heavenly fallen coworker’s body without skipping a beat. “Boys, sit up straight; the boss is here!” She cocked her head to the side, scanning him up and down. “You look nasty, but in a bad way.” She growled as she passed him a rag. “Clean up before he sees you!”

Tralvuraun only winked as Valvollan realized it was too late; his eyes crossed and became heavy. “Bidzzt!” was all he could say.

He tried to grab the chair for support, but Ogmon kicked it to the side, laughing as he spoke. “Bean, count this, you dirty human lover.”

Valvollan couldn’t see it, but Ogmon was flipping him two birds. All Val could think of as his face slammed into the fast-approaching floor was getting topside one last time. When his teeth cracked and bone fragments entered his evil brain, it abruptly deprived him of the opportunity to finish his evil musing.

“Damn!” Tralvuraun said, “I am sooo good at being bad!” She kicked the body of Valvollan as she moved past it to get a better view of her employer, but all she got was a face full of Girach. “Holy shit, woman!” said Tral, astonished. “Take 10 steps back!”

Girach addressed the room, completely disregarding Tralvuraun. “What do we have here?” she asked, raising an arm over the tangled pile of victims on the floor. “This wouldn’t be a little amusement on the company’s dime, would it?”

“No, ma’am, it’s only ah… hm.” Ogmon chose to stop speaking.

Tralvuraun, however, had not. “Are you high?” she inquired. “I’m working over here, and exceeding my monthly quota by three.”

Girach made it no secret that she loathed Tralvuraun from the outset. It’s not like demons ever become buddies, but Girach had it in for her. Girach’s physical nose may have been out of joint, as was speculated in some water cooler conversations, but her dead, dark, and shrivelled heart felt the absence of attention. There was widespread consensus that she was no longer anyone’s favourite workplace demon. After all, a beautiful monster can only look so natural with so much pus on its face.

Tralvuraun cursed under her breath. “Fuck, I’m out of chloroform!”

“What’s that, dear?” asked Girach.

“Sorry about that. I told Ogmon that I needed another order form.” Tralvuraun, like all demons, was an expert at lying on the fly. Ogmon only chuckled; he was growing fond of Tral.

At that moment, a nosey Arnaruch found any excuse to walk by and get whatever gossip his dirty, pointed ears could pick up. “Anything I can help you with, sweetheart?”

“You and your little pencil dick can go to heaven and mind your own Beelzebub damned business, Arnaruch.” To them, this was idle conversation. They would go out all night after work, getting drunk on the blood of virgins.

“You’re such a bitch. It’s wonderful. Kisses.” Arnaruch was off to tell his wicked, lovely lies to everyone who would listen.

Tralvuraun turned to face Girach and yelled loud enough for all the hideous hell creatures in Office 613 to hear. “OK, screw it. I’m tired of this bullshit. Could I borrow you for a moment?” Her grin was more phony than usual.

“Yes, my sweetheart, but just for a split second. We don’t want to keep the big man waiting, do we?” Girach wasn’t actually requesting anything; she just enjoyed the role of condescending demon manager. It may have been in her contract, which she signed in blood a millennium ago.

Whispering, Ogmon asked, “What are you doing? She’s your boss!”

“Was my boss, Ogmon! Was!”

Out of chloroform, out of patience, and running out of time before Satan himself was about to conduct her performance review, Tralvuraun did what all demons do in crunch time. Random acts of gore-filled brutality, insane enough to make the hounds of hell blush.

“Eat this, Girach!” Tralvuraun grabbed the empty bottle of chloroform and jammed it into Pusface’s open-mouth hole. Tral’s arm went upward in a punching motion as Girach’s eyes crossed in a downward motion, both fist and face colliding for one wonderful glass-crunching moment of mayhem and devastation. Girach slumped to the ground, gazing up at a smiling Tralvuraun, her hands raised in a blood, glass, and tooth protest. She opened her mouth to say something, but the reactive heel of Tralvuraun’s newly acquired promotion boots cut off her train of thought. Come, heaven, or low, calm waters; today was Tral’s day.

“Hey Tral.”

“Yes, Ogmon.”

“I don’t want to rain on your parade or anything, but,” Ogmon paused.

“Rain away, little demon, rain away.”

“Um, well, let me explain,” Ogmon fumbled.

“Go on.”

“Well, I think your numbers are off a bit.”

Tralvuraun smiled. “Oh, Ogmon, always the demonic little bean counter.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad; you’re only off by one number. Out of four hundred and thirty-six thousand, seven hundred and twenty-six, that’s not so bad.” When Ogmon set someone straight on their math, he experienced that wonderful, sinful pride.

“Just one, you say?”

“That’s right, Tral, just one.” Ogmon was beaming by this point.

“Ogmon?”

“Yes, Tral?”

“How’s your coffee?”

“Ah Fuuug yuulll bidzzt.”

Up the Hill

“I wish I could teleport,” I say. “This hill is far too-”

“Did you say ‘fart?” Oliver asked.

He whips his head to widen his eyes in accusation at me.

“No, you did!” He said. “You said ‘fart!”

I press my lips together and hold the scream of frustration in my mouth. I don’t even bother to blame myself for saying the words “far” and “too” in succession of one another. It’s been years of blaming myself for the sake of fairness; I am done. 

It’s the sort of summer day that people refer to as “beautiful”, but my heart yearns for the cooler temperatures of autumn. Black clouds of gnats populate the area at random. The neighborhood smells like tires. A sun sneeze loiters behind my nose and eyes. The blue raspberry syrup sky seems too low, like the ceiling of a boiler room. 

None of this I say out loud. It would be further evidence of my bad attitude. After all, he is the fun loving one. 

“Complaining is your lifeblood,” he likes to say.

I do not want to confirm this. I do not want to be negative. I swear. That said, the heat death of the universe would be a welcome change of pace.

“What’s that?” Oliver asks.

I didn’t bother to look, assuming it was another trick of his. Knowing Oliver, I would turn my head directly into a mud ball in the face or at least be treated to the sight of two homeless people fucking in public.

“I don’t know, Oliver,” I say. “What is it?”

“I-I really don’t know,” Oliver says.

His voice is like a rubber band stretched too tight. Following his gaze, a lone figure stands. Skulking in a small park across the street, it is hard to see clearly as the shade of a towering conifer veils it in darkness. Too immense to be a person, it is like an immense pile of black fabric, but the way it moves and flows is as if the wind is blowing only in the spot where it stands. Everywhere else, the air is stagnant.

“Let’s go over there,” Oliver says.

I continue to walk up the hill.

“This is why you’re depressed,” says Oliver. “You never want to push yourself outside of your comfort zone.”

“I’m not depressed,” I say.

I stride toward the ominous figure, partially to prove it, partially to get away from Oliver. As I cross the street, the acrid flavor that fills my mouth gets strong with each step until my eyes begin to water.

Oliver follows, chattering something I cannot hear. The air pressure drops as we approach. My ears pop.

In the folds of the wraithlike blackness, something resembling a face emerges. It is white and eyeless, like a theater mask. This should not happen, not during the day. Something about the world arounds me tells me that it is not actually the day, just a simulacrum of it. It isn’t night either; I have fallen into an absence of time.

What am I doing?

I turn. The look on Oliver’s face tells me not to turn back again. He’s been exsanguinated of all mirth. His eyes go waxy. He is dead before he even begins to fall to the ground.

“Oh my god…” I whisper. “This is far too-”

An ungodly croak emanates from behind me, taciturn and mephitic, as only the pure embodiment of evil can be. The sound warps and ungulates until it becomes words I can understand.

“Did you say ‘fart?” It says.