Dirty, Cute Feet: A Tale of Hops, Hookers and Horror (Part I) Dirty, Cute Feet: A Tale of Hops, Hookers and Horror (Part I)
When I woke up I knew two things with complete certainty. I had blacked out and I had pissed the bed. In that order,... Dirty, Cute Feet: A Tale of Hops, Hookers and Horror (Part I)

PART I

SKANKS FOR THE MEMORIES

When I woke up I knew two things with complete certainty. I had blacked out and I had pissed the bed. In that order, I was hoping. I don’t think I had reached the point where my drinking resulted in the loss of bodily functions when I was conscious, or at least semi ambulatory. However, one could never tell. I was having a shitty year, even by my bargain basement standards.

Maybe I no longer felt I had the time to walk to the shitter in between beers or shots of whiskey? The places I had been drinking in lately, the release of bodily fluids outside of the drug den bathrooms was no reason to put your drink down for a closer look. As I farted in my soggy underwear, I realized once again it wasn’t the things I said or did in an alcohol fueled blackout that killed me—it was the things I thought I might have done.

Drinking is the demon of stolen memory and unruly bladders.

I could feel that I still had shoes on my feet and I was still wearing my clothes from yesterday—jeans, black button down that hid my growing beer gut nicely and blue puma sneakers. Friday was casual at the Chinaski Tool Company in Westbury. I had wanted to look unintentionally handsome yesterday as there was a Happy Hour after work for Kara Sepelowski, who was leaving for a job in New York City.

My name—in case whoever is reading this gives a fuck—is Fergus Riley. My friends call me Gus. Gus was a name I didn’t always deserve. Gus was a name for stand-up guys. Men. Honest mechanics and courageous cops were named Gus. My recreational drinking was turning into a vocation. I always felt scared and honesty was becoming tougher than an Iron Man Triathlon.

Friends, like dollar bills in my checking account—seemed to be disappearing faster than the idea of an honest politician. I was thirty five and most of my friends were in serious relationships, working towards promotions, getting married, having kids.

Adult things.

I wearily rubbed my face and could feel sharp stubble on my fleshy cheeks. With a growing horror I wondered how many of the self-important cunts and cocksuckers I worked with snapped my picture last night? I couldn’t wait to see those making the rounds on the company email. There would be a dozen pictures of me standing next to more attractive and taller co-workers, with my chin trying to multiply, the jaw line of a jellyfish, eyes sleepy from overwork and drink, graying hair sticking up like I had mistaken an electrical outlet for a Newark hooker’s business box.

Always with a drink in my hand.

I liked Kara and she liked me.  We had a connection over old George Romero movies. She was a huge fan of Dawn of the Dead. I loved it, as well. However, I related more with the insane lead character in Martin. I substituted a corkscrew and wine bottle for tranquilizers and razor blades, but addictions were all the same. The wine I drank was the same color as blood.

Kara was petite with a nice figure. She had a dimpled chin and a warm smile. Her short blond hair always smelled nice. I could always catch a whiff of it when I worked on her computer, mapping network drives or cleaning out viruses I had intentionally put there. I liked spending time with her and that was the only way to guarantee it. She was unassuming and funny. Kara had the nice quality that she was almost embarrassed to be cute.

She was several  years younger than me, but she wasn’t just out of school. She was definitely within acceptable dating age. Kara wasn’t engaged and I wasn’t sure if she had a boyfriend. I didn’t want to know. I could see she didn’t have any pictures of one on her desk. Most women in my office had well placed photos of boyfriends, babies or husbands amongst the knick-knacks on their desks. I think they put them there like crucifixes or garlic. They thought it would protect them from the suave office gigolos who prowled the aisles between the cubicles like vampires picking off victims in Victorian England.

When she told me she was leaving the Chinaski Tool Company for greener pastures, I hoped the look of disappointment didn’t show on my face. Weird thing was as soon as she told me the news, she looked even more beautiful than she was before. It was like some minor ailment she had disappeared–an insignificant blemish. She was smiling when she told me and her excitement devastated me. My old man had died earlier in the year and Kara taking another job hit me harder.

Maybe I am a piece of shit, but my old man cared about his cigarettes and vodka and club sodas more than he cared about me in recent years. They found his body when they went to padlock his house for not paying the mortgage. There was a bad smell. His corpse was in the middle of piles and piles of empty packs of Marlboros, plastic club soda bottles he used as ashtrays and cheap vodka bottles. I always told myself I wouldn’t end up like him.

That’s why I don’t smoke.

My large studio apartment was as quiet as a tomb. I couldn’t hear anything except for my heart that was pounding against the front of my skull, irritating my eyes. My face felt like it was close enough to kiss a bowl filled with powdered bleach. My lips were chapped and my teeth felt like they were on fire. NASA would have to develop some scientific instrument for there to be an accurate measurement of just how much I hated myself.

The silence was always too judgmental for my fragile psyche. I looked at the time on my cable box. 3 AM. God—that magical dude who exists for clergy and drunks to offer hope of a better existence—only knew what time I got in. A vision of Kara laughing at one of my jokes ripped through my mind and I felt like I was going to puke.

If I tried to shut my eyes again, guilt would rattle me until I was groggy and awake. I supposed I had things to do anyway. I would have to pick up my car from the bar. That meant a walk to the ATM and a cab at the Baldwin train station.

I scanned my apartment for my wallet and keys. Drinking was the demon of hiding items of responsibility. I would need to find my iPhone and all the embarrassing and incriminating texts sent and received. Fucking technology couldn’t let anyone enjoy a good drunk in obscurity.

I needed to shower before I got diaper rash.

I groaned as I stood up, reached for my sticky remote, and turned on the television set. The local news was on and some refurbished mannequin with fake looking blond hair and artificial tits was mentioning that more animal remains were found in a field in the Patchogue-Medford area. That was right around route 112. A lot of hookers advertised that they set up shop near route 112. Besides the prostitutes, I couldn’t think of any reason to go to Patchogue or Medford.

I didn’t understand Suffolk County.

I absent mindedly touched my left knee and dull pain pulsed down my leg and settled in my foot. When I removed my hand the pain went away. Fucking phantom drunk injuries!! I never knew how I got them. They were just part of the deal, like the hangovers and the drinker’s remorse.

I yawned and a sickly phlegm smell emanated from my mouth. I hoped Kara didn’t get a whiff of that nastiness when I was probably talking too close to her face. With my right hand I reached into the back of my mouth and yanked a piece of slimy white meat from in between my molars. Disgusted with my existence, I flicked the morsel of whatever onto my floor. The ants would take care of it.

Something banged against the window that was over my bed. I spun around and faced the window, half expecting to see an ominous shadow visible through the burgundy curtains. I didn’t see anything. Was it the wind? I couldn’t hear any leaves blowing around the backyard.

My apartment was an extension of a large old house. It was nice because I didn’t have anyone living above me. I just opened a gate on a big white fence that completely blocked the view of the street, walked up a driveway and I was in my apartment. It was nice and private. Every once in a while, I would see my landlady sweeping up the patio or stuffing trash in a garbage can.

She was in her sixties. She had no family and she was a drinker. That was a bonus for me, that understanding.

There was another bang on the window. This time it shook the glass in its frame. It was a sharp ping. I knew that sound from when I was a kid. It was from happier times when the world wasn’t pushing me around, shoving me through the entrances of various bars and forcing Tullamore Dew down my throat.

It sounded like one of those colorful rubber balls. They usually sold them from large bins at the local drug store.  I remembered holding these decorative rubber globes in both hands like I was some giant monster holding galaxies hostage. Then I would bounce them off the ground, giggling with delight as my dog tripped over it as he tried to bite the damn thing.

Who the fuck was throwing it against my window? What the fuck had I gotten into? I immediately thought this had something to do with my drinking binge earlier. It always did. I wasn’t a mean drunk. Mean drunks got no business drinking. It didn’t mean the booze didn’t cause me problems.

There was a knocking on my door. The sound made me flinch like a wasp whizzed by my nose. I stared at it for a moment like it was one of those monoliths from 2001:A Space Odyssey. My God, it’s full of bars. That’s just my life, not the line from the flick.

There was another knock.

A prostitute I didn’t remember calling?

Another gentle tapping.

Landlady? Perhaps a concerned and self-righteous friend?

Two more quick knocks.

The cops?

With an invisible hand crushing my guts and pushing waste through my bowels, I slowly walked over to the door and opened it just enough to see who it was. I could feel the crisp October air push into the stale  stench of my apartment. I had plans to clean it up and decorate it nicely.

I had plans for many things. It was easy to plan. The doing part was my problem. Drinking is the demon of procrastination.

There was nobody there. I swung the door open and stepped out into the night, the moonlight illuminating the backyard—with its weeds, rusty furniture and dog shit—like a streetlamp. I looked to my left and saw that the large gate was still locked. I wondered how long it took me to navigate opening that motherfucker when I came home? With its bulky door and uncooperative latch, sober it could be a bitch. However, drinking made some things easier for me.

Like making a fool of myself, for instance.

I turned back towards the apartment and stopped in my tracks. Someone had scribbled something on my front door. Defacing the white surface of the door like graffiti, someone had written on it in what looked like red or burgundy crayon. I groaned when I saw what it said.

DRUNKY SKUNKY LIKES DIRTY CUTE FEET

“Great,” I moaned, hating the sound of my own voice. It was so pathetic, like an accountant who steals from the elderly. “What the fuck did I say last night? Work is going to be fun on Monday.”

I took a few steps towards my apartment and what sounded like a small someone spoke from behind me in a high voice.

“Hi fartbag,” they said.

I turned around and was hit in the nose by something. By the time I had muttered “fuck” I heard the ball bouncing on the patio and rolling to the gate. I looked at the ball. It was blue with yellow and white stars that swirled. It looked exactly like the one I had in 1987.

I heard a little girl giggling.

I looked at her standing and staring at me, smiling. She was about six years old and fairly plump in a cute way. She had an upturned nose that probably got her called “piggy” in the playground, or there were a few “oink oinks” every time she walked to her desk. She had blond curly hair and rosy cheeks. She was wearing a worn out blue dress and saddle shoes.

Her sleepless eyes looked so fucking old. They were dull and glassy like a junkie’s. The purplish bags under them reminded me of bruises that old people always seemed to have. She was sad and creepy at the same time.

“Do you have a kid in there?” she asked.

“No, I don’t,” I answered simply. I was trying to be as nice as possible, so I raised my voice a bit as if I were talking to a toddler. I was also trying to not sound scared.

“It smells like you have a kid in there,” she said flatly, her eyes growing wide, “Can I come in?”

“Sorry,” I said, my heart hammering in my chest. “I don’t feel well. I don’t want you to get sick.”

“Drunk isn’t contagious,” she said sternly. I was pretty sure she was right. I think the taxpayers had given scientists billions of dollars to prove it.

In this bullshit politically correct world, I would rather be offended than lied too. However, it still pissed me off. I wasn’t going to let her get away with that.

“Go home to your parents,” I said, shooing her away with my hand. “I don’t need your old man coming by here accusing me of being a child molester. Go annoy someone that likes you.”

“Cars from bars swallow children,” she said, almost chanting it. “Be careful out there. More jokes, more drinks, more death, more black magic.”

She repeated it.

“I get it,” I cut her off quickly, “You need to stop listening to your father’s Black Sabbath records. Go home before I call the cops.”

“The cops,” she said, mocking me as she started to walk away. Then she was gone.

When I was back in my apartment with the door closed, I couldn’t remember if I actually saw her leave.

“I need a drink,” I said to myself.

 

TO BE CONTINUED………….

Author Image

Tarmac492

Imprisoned on the overtaxed, overpopulated and overpriced fortress of Long Island, Tarmac492 seeks refuge in the pop junkyard of his brain. He enjoys books, film, television, music and a good drink, or seven every now and again. Beautiful women love being "friends" with him and they find his useless knowledge mildly diverting. Tarmac492 hopes to move to Tierra del Fuego where he can waste away--blissfully drunk and anonymous--at the end of the world.

  • Great stuff, man! You truly are a master of metaphors.

  • Awesome, can’t wait for part 2!

  • Tarmac492.1

    For anyone nice enough to read and comment–all I ask is brutal honesty. Thx. Happy Halloween.

  • Readerly Yours, Shadow Dojo

    “Drinking is the demon of stolen memory” – uh . . . . what? Lol. Think so?

  • Readerly Yours, Shadow Dojo

    “Fucking technology couldn’t let anyone enjoy a good drunk in obscurity.” OK that’s brilliant.

  • Readerly Yours, Shadow Dojo

    Dude you know what you should try? Adderall.

  • Readerly Yours, Shadow Dojo

    Ask your Doctor about getting some.

  • Tarmac492.1

    Thanks and thanks for getting the categories right. I will use those next time.

  • CreepyThinMan

    Tarmac492.1, I enjoy reading your prose and you should continue developing your skills!!!FACT!!!

  • CreepyThinMan

    Tarmac492.1, you inspired me this evening. I read your story a few hours ago, fucked my wife into a coma, and then felt the sudden compulsion to write something. The urge hasn’t been as strong lately because of work and school but here’s what I have soo far, I hope that you like it……

    MISS DANIELLE FELDINGS FUNERAL

    Three days ago I received word from a former classmate that
    my grade 7 teacher, Danielle Felding, had died. I really didn’t want to go but
    I haven’t been to a funeral for quite a few years nor did I have anything
    better to do since I had just finished playing Batman: Arkham Origins for PS3 (my
    second time beating the game, the first was on X-Box) and my wife was on her
    period, so there would be no fucking for a few days since she doesn’t like
    giving blowjobs or taking it in the ass and my cock is too heavy for her to
    give me a handjob.

    I wanted to look my best but I was working within a budget,
    so I decided to first check out Value Village for a second hand suit. But most
    of them had holes in them, bedbugs or the scent of either piss, shit or cum. It
    was like looking through Donald Trump’s wardrobe. My disappointment vexed me
    and I needed to blow some steam off, so I strangled a 12 year old Hispanic
    street whore behind VV, chopped up her sinful corpse and stuffed her bits and
    pieces into the VV donations drop box but not forgetting to pocket her uterus
    for use as my fleshlight later that night while I could cook it afterwards as a
    snack because syphilis tainted vaginal meat tastes just like filet mignon.

    I said “FUCK IT!” and decided to just wear the tux I wore to
    my wedding. This would ensure that I would be the best dressed person at the
    funeral which might get me some action because sluts get wet at funerals. Death reminds them to live in the moment and
    do what they were meant to; lay on their backs with legs spread wide as their
    foaming gash waits for a fat cock! I also had to consider if I needed to eat
    before going because I wasn’t sure if the wake was going to be held at an
    all-you-can-eat buffet or some pub and I can’t drink with no food in my stomach
    because if that happens then the booze hits my system harder and I’d inevitably
    pull my dick out and try to impress the ladies by doing my impression of the
    last helicopter leaving the Embassy in Saigon (at the end of the Vietnam war) by yelling “SOI-SOI-SOI-SOI-SOI!”while swinging my meatsabre around in a circle. Which I did after mygrandmother’s funeral. Now my family doesn’t talk to me. GOOD. It’s not like I’m going to inherit any money from those fuckers so why waste my time with them.

    I thought it might be a good idea to take my best friend Dan
    with me. He’s a 300 pound paranoid schizophrenic and the only person I can
    relate to apart from my wife, who might be a figment of my imagination unlike
    my 14 inch cock that’s the same diameter as a can of Coke, who I suspect is
    crazy given that she married me. A few years from now Dan would kill himself,
    mostly likely due to the schizophrenia and obviously not a reflection upon
    having me as a friend from which he could never escape. He started bitching
    that he didn’t want to go because his neck was sore, probably from all the
    cocks hitting the back of his throat (my nickname for him is Faggotlips), but
    he changed his tune when he heard that he would get free food for looking at a
    corpse. So I picked Faggotlips up and, while driving to gawk at Miss Felding’s
    dead body, I explained to him her significance to me.

    Twas the year 1991 and I was but a lad of 13, the greatest year of my life when it was all Terminator 2, Silence of the Lambs, Gun’s ‘N’ Rose’s and Nirvana. I was a part of the school volleyball team (no homo) and Miss Felding was dropping off some of the players. I was the last student she needed to drop off so I asked her to pull the car over. I feigned innocence and asked her “Miss Felding, can I ask you something?”, “Sure CTM” she replied. So I pulled out my ROCK HARD COCK and said “Do you think I have a big dick?”. Her eyes widened and her jaw became slack as a slight hint of saliva started to dribble at the cusp of her supple lips, glossed with strawberry red lipstick. “Well” she gulped “It’s a beautiful penis and you should be proud”. “Do you want to touch it? I asked? “I don’t know if that’s a good idea CTM, I’ll get into trouble”. “I can keep a secret” I said as I took her hand and placed it on my
    throbbing spam javelin which now had the density of a Neutron star. As she
    began to stroke it her eyes now had the crazed look of a woman dying of thirst and
    starvation in the middle of a desert being placed before a feast fit for a
    Queen.

    She devoured the shaft without even a moment’s hesitation as
    the tip of my Red October (my wangs nickname because it runs silent and deep) hit
    the contents of her stomach. She furiously jack hammered my dong in and out of
    her filthy whore mouth as her eyes became bloodshot and streamed tears of joy. After
    ten minutes I erupted in her mouth, as she choked and sputtered like some poor
    bastard drowning inside the Titanic, before she regained her composure and
    started gargling my salty dicksnot in her gaping maw before swallowing it in
    one almighty gulp.

    She then violently slammed herself back against the car
    door, lifted her legs and pressed her beautiful bare feet on the ceiling while
    ripping her panties off and demanding that I plow her moist twat. I rammed my
    cock soo hard in her neatly trimmed beaver that she screamed soo loud that God
    himself said “WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!?”, and then moaned as I got half way in
    and then began to cry as I went balls deep in this fucking bitch with her knees
    pinned to her fucking ears as I pumped that juicy cunt like it was an oil well.
    I had to be home soon because Benny Hill was going to start at 10:30PM, so I
    rabbited that snatch while her gushing pussy soaked the front seat of her car,
    making it smell like a fish market in July, and when she reached the crescendo of
    her orgasmic symphony her nails ripped through the back of my T-shirt and
    gouged the flesh which is why I spent the next few weeks wearing two shirts at
    all times and applying liberal amounts of hydrogen peroxide to my wounds which
    left me scarred like JOHN RAMBO who destroyed gooks like I slayed the dragon
    known as Miss Felding’s ham wallet.

    “Did that really happen?” Faggotlips asked. “Yep, everything but
    the 14 inch cock because I’m ashamed that I only have 12” I said. Dans mouth
    twisted, his eyes narrowed and he continued “….so, when was the last time you
    saw her?”. “She left a few months later. Never said goodbye although we were
    fucking regularly like rabid weasels and making my pud explode like a canister
    of 2-4-5 Trioxin”. Dan giggled at my Return of the Living Dead reference but it
    was sort of a fake laugh and I swore that I’d fuck him over for mocking me so
    blatantly which is why I substituted his schizophrenia medication with placebos
    a few weeks before he killed himself and left a pack of razor blades in his
    medicine cabinet, which he didn’t even fucking use because he decided to swan
    dive off the balcony of his apartment, on the eight floor, and ruin the perfectly
    manicured lawn below with the man shaped crater he left. There was also a patch
    of yellowed and withered grass where he landed due to his sphincter and bowels
    loosening, unleashing a putrescent stench soo foul that it would drive Cthulhu
    to madness.

    We parked not at the funeral home but down the street next
    to a Tim Hortons so that, after eyeballing the slab of meat, we could get some
    donuts. I hoped that they had some sour cream glazed, my favorite, and that one
    hot black chick was working there that day because she’s got a fabulous pair of
    chocolate colored melon heavy milkers that I’d like to suckle like a famished
    newborn.

    Good thing we stationed my shitwagon at Timmy’s because the parking
    lot at the cold body motel was packed as about two dozen people milled about
    outside with another hundred in the building. “Looks like I wasn’t the only student
    she fucked” I whispered towards Dan as we made our way into the foyer. “Let’s
    split up so we can cover more ground. You find the food and I’ll see if any of
    these skanks are willing to go ass-to-mouth in the bathroom”.

    I looked around and didn’t recognize anyone, however, I
    spotted a shapely girl with long blond hair, blue eyes and creamy white skin
    covering her tight little hardbody. She was crying beside the casket so I went
    over to “console” her. I placed my hand on her shoulder and spoke in a fatherly
    manner to project a trustworthy facade of moral authority, mainly to lure her
    into a false sense of security so I could put my fuckstick in her shitpipe at a
    later date. “There, there, she’s at peace now.” I said, barely keeping myself
    from brandishing my teeth like a feral wolf about to sink its fangs into a baby
    lamb. “It’s just soo tragic that she died soo young” the girl sobbed before
    turning to me and leaning her head upon my chest, giving me a fantastic view of
    her knockers, making me fantasize about blasting them with a steaming hot load
    of jizz, like a modern day Tom Sawyer whitewashing that fucking fence. Luckily
    she didn’t notice my engorged member pulsating beneath my pant leg nor did she
    cotton onto my roving hand which was feeling up Danielle’s necrotic nipple
    which was like a steel thimble.

    I realized that I had barely looked at Miss Felding and that
    this was the first contact I’ve had with her in almost 25 years since the last
    time we fucked. Yep, she was dead but looked decent enough for an older broad
    although I’m sure the mortician used some Cover Girl/Estee Lauder/Maybelline
    or whatever shit that Paris fashionistas use on their models to make those
    fucking deadeyed zombie fuckdolls look alive as they parade on the catwalks
    when not living on a diet of cocaine, cigarettes and semen.

    THAT’S ALL I GOT FOR NOW, IF I FINISH THIS STORY I’LL POST IT ON MY BLOG!!!FACT!!!

  • Stalkeye

    Creepy, whadefuck, Meng?!? XD

  • Stalkeye

    Will there be a Hallmark TV adaptation?

  • Tarmac492.1

    Sesame Street. Look for Bert and Snuffleupagus in big roles.

  • Tarmac492.1

    Thanks CTM!! This a great compliment for me as I have always enjoyed your writings!!!That is FACT!!! as well.

  • Tarmac492.1

    This is good stuff, mang. Laughed out loud a few times. I will be looking for the completion. I hate it when my job kills my desire to write, as well. I would like to be a penniless writer in the East Village or Alphabet City, but I i just dont have the money. So I need The old BS M-F 9 to 5, or 7 to 7 more like it. I hate the Platinum Suits–9:15 to 5:00 pm, send off a few emails, make “tough” decisions that will have direct ramifications about YOUR job, yet they dont have to suffer the consequences and they will be lionized if it is a good decision. It it falls flat, they will fire three people who had to carry out the task and most likely really need their jobs. I hate big govt, but the politics of the private sector are almost equally stifling.

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  • Tarmac492.1

    If you were choking in front of me I would laugh as I watched you turn blue and I would violently repel anyone who tried to offer you aid.

  • CreepyThinMan
  • Stalkeye

    BTW, this is a very interesting read. Something different and ballsy!
    Great work as always, Tar!

  • Tarmac492.1

    Thanks Bro!!

  • MissyLT

    Go with it

  • Dr. Geiszler, Kaijuologist

    Ah, I think we all know a Kara in our life.