Separate names with a comma.
Discussion in 'The Lounge' started by oxrageous, Feb 8, 2016.
Well this story sucks then.
Steve knew he’d made a mistake the second he entered the big sow’s pen. He wondered if it was too late to choose the shotgun over the pig. He found himself standing in an area of the sty the sow had apparently used primarily for defecation. He was a foot deep now in mud and pig excrement. This was not only stomach-curdling, but also dangerous, as Steve realized he wouldn’t be able to move quickly if he suddenly found himself in peril. “**** this,” Steve muttered, indignantly, having realized that “Tom Parks” with his bull-sh!t “Four-Handed Method,” had yet to enter the pen. Steve made a move toward the fence. The sow, having noticed movement, let out several low grunts, and began charging at him. In a panic, Steve tried to step too quickly. He struggled to pull his leg out of the mud, lost a shoe and collapsed face first in the dark sludge underneath him. When he emerged from the mire, face and clothes covered with filth, Steve turned to find the snout of the enormous grunting pig two inches from his face. He could feel the heat from its flaring nostrils. He was cowering now, trapped in the corner of the sty. “Get this ****ing thing off of me,” Steve screamed. “Jesus ****ing Christ, it’s going to kill me." “Calm down and remain silent,” Herb cautioned Steve. “You’re not using best practices here, Mr. McWhortalherskerken. You’re upsetting the pig.” Just then the large sow began rotating her body. In an instant the pig had introduced her hindquarters to Steve’s face and was backing ever closer to his nose. The sow arched her back. “That’s a sow’s text-book Standing Reflex!” Herb shouted excitedly. “I guarantee you this animal has moved herself past proestrus and is in full on estrus!” Herb grabbed a wooden dowel the farmhands had been using as a prod and began using it as a pointer. “Look,” he said, waiving the stick near the sow’s hindquarters which were now only a couple of inches from Steve’s sour-looking face, “Note the swollen, red vulva and the watery discharge. This animal is 100% in heat!” The two farmhands were trying their best to suppress laughter as the farmer shot them disapproving glances. It was a futile effort on their part. “Well,” Herb said, “I think we have our first clue as to why old Kiki here has been so cranky lately. Any of us married fellas will tell you that if you aren’t taking care of things at home with mama - if you know what I mean- she’s going to get pretty ornery, eventually.” Herb, who had actually never been married, gave one of the farmhands a sly nudge with his elbow. “Am I right?” The two farmhands lost control at this point. One of them had rested his forearm on the shoulder of the other and was doubled over in laughter as he attempted to hide his face in his arm. The other was laughing so hard he had tears rolling down his face. The farmer just shook his head as he looked at them. Meanwhile, Steve was really struggling. He was fully pinned in the corner of the sty and the overwhelming stench and visuals were causing him to gag. To make matters worse he now had Herb’s pointer swirling around in his face, which was infuriating. “You see our friend Mr. McWhortalherskerken here is having none of this.” Herb said, gesturing wildly with his pointer. “He appears to be unhappy. Let’s hope Kiki doesn’t pick up on his unfriendly attitude. The rejection could really set her off.” Herb sensed that the farmer was a little embarrassed by not only the behavior of the farmhands, but perhaps a perceived lack of farming knowledge. Herb thought it would be a good time to pay a complement to the farmer. “You made the right move penning this animal alone, sir. You obviously have a lot of knowledge you can pass along to us younger guys. I can’t tell you how many times I come across a farmer who has left an in-heat sow in a pen with other sows. The disruption of the herd is staggering. The entire milk production of the nursing sows in the pen declines precipitously. The sow in-heat actually often tries to mount the other sows, probably in some kind of effort to satisfy her swollen female genitalia.” As if on cue, Kiki began turning herself around again. Steve saw this and made another attempt at escape. He raised himself to his knees, turned himself and grabbed at the iron fence of the pen. In an instant, Kiki was on top of him, the heavy animal rutting herself relentlessly against his lower back and buttocks. Steve braced himself by putting his arms down in the muck. If they gave in, he thought, he’d be drowned in the mire. “Get this ****ing thing off me!” Steve cried. “Hang in there Brian.” The smirking Herb shouted, just loud enough to be heard above the uproarious laughter of the two farmhands. “I’m coming in.” Steve didn’t know which was more insulting, the raping he was taking at the hands of the giant sow, or the smug, sarcastic way Herb called Steve by his phony first name. Herb climbed into the pen and produced an apple from his pocket. “Here you go, baby,” Herb sung to the pig in a childish voice. “Here you go…” The pig turned her head toward Herb. Her large snout began sniffing at the apple. Soon the pace of her rutting slowed. Steve was still grunting underneath her as he tried to support her weight. The pig finally dismounted Steve and took the apple from Herb. As she chomped on the apple, Herb began stroking her head and snout. “We use gentle stroking of the head, snout and ears to calm the animal down,” Herb said. “Let them know you’re friendly,” he continued. “Use a nice peaceful voice. Never poke or prod the animal and never yell at it. Pigs are very intelligent animals and they’re also very sensitive. They love gentle human interaction. They also respond very well to music or singing. Look, she’s already calming herself down.” Steve had risen to his feet now. He was covered in muck and pig feces. The farmer and his two workers were leaning on the fence, watching in amazement as Herb continued to soothe the pig. Herb began humming to the pig. If Steve had any doubts about whether Herb was clinically insane, they were completely erased at this moment. Herb looked into the pig’s eyes and gently scratched its snout with his fingers. He then began singing Jethro Tull’s “Hymn 43” like an Irish lullaby. He substituted ridiculous pig references into the lyrics, which made the whole scene bizarrely surreal and comical. “Oh, father high in hea-ven…,” Herb sang to the pig, “smile down upon your s-ow...” The pig seemed to enjoy the serenade and once Herb had fully calmed the pig down she laid herself down in the muck. Herb played with her a little as she rolled over on her back like a dog. By now, Steve had climbed out of the pen, and still shaking from nerves, attempted to scrape off the layer of muck and filth that covered him.
The farmer was sold. He invited Herb into the farmhouse to set up a time for his return and to sign the paperwork. The two men sat at the kitchen table and discussed the program and dates. The farmer signed the phony contract Herb gave him and reached into his drawer to pull out a checkbook. Herb stopped the farmer. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Ellard,” Herb said, “I don’t do business that way. You don’t pay until we’ve completed the training for you and you are fully satisfied with the results.” “Fair enough,” said the farmer. Having gained the trust of the farmer now, Herb wanted to see if he could get some much needed information from him. Herb opened his notebook and showed the farmer a list of farms in the area. “Mr. Ellard,” Herb asked the farmer. “You’ve seen what our methods can do here. Can you think of some other farmers on this list who might be interested in learning our techniques?” The man looked over the list. “I think Callway farms would be up for it.” Mr. Ellard said, “I’ve known Allen for years and he’s a pretty practical guy. I can get you an introduction. Same with Three Forks and Terrini, I can call those guys for you too.” Ellard continued to run his index finger down the list. Herb hoped he’d get him an intro to the farmers who were the trustees of FasCorp, the Haltons. Ellard’s finger stopped just short of the Haltons on the list. “Perrin Family Farm.” Ellard’s voice grew sad when he read the name of the farm. “Mr. Parks, I’d kindly ask that you leave these folks alone for the time being. They’ve had a terrible tragedy, and I’m afraid your presence on their farm will just bring about more grief for them.” “Sure Mr. Ellard.” Herb said, “What happened?” “Mr. Parks,” the farmer started, “I’ve known the Perrin family for as long as I can remember. Went to church with them, saw when their daughter Cindy came into the world, was at her wedding when she married the Ulrich boy after he came home from college. You could not have known a finer family, or people who were more respected in these parts.” As Herb listened, he was moved by the sadness in the farmer’s voice. He liked this man. He wished his cover wasn’t just some ruse and that he’d be able to meet him again. “When Cindy’s father died suddenly,” Ellard went on, “Cindy and Bill Ulrich had to take over the farm. She’s got twin boys so it wasn’t easy. Bill was busy in his law practice, but he helped out where he could. I guess it was his lack of experience handling pigs that did him in.” “What do you mean?” asked Herb, keenly aware that he, too, had a ‘lack of experience.’ He wondered, thoughtfully, if he too could be ‘done in.’ “Yeah, what do you mean?” Chimed an annoyed Steve loudly. He was standing at the kitchen sink trying to wash the filth off his face and hands. The farmer’s comment reminded him that he’d just put his life in jeopardy by confronting an angry sow. “Bill must’ve fallen one night when he was feeding his stock inside their pen, just before going to bed.” The old man explained. “Cindy slept through the night and didn’t notice Bill was gone. I guess the pigs had gotten agitated by something while he was in the pen and he couldn’t get out. By the morning he’d been picked clean. Nothing but bone left. Cindy found him, poor girl.” “Good God, that’s horrible.” Remarked Herb. “Yeah, that’s horrible.” Repeated Steve who had grown pale from the description. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr. Ellard,” Herb said, “We’ll leave her in peace as you’ve requested so she can do her grieving.” Then Herb said, “Mr. Ellard, the next farm on this list, Millicent and Jeremiah Halton’s farm, they’re next door to the Perrin farm. Do you think they’d be interested in our certification program?” Ellard scowled a little. “I don’t know. I’d stay away, I think. Those people keep to themselves a lot. Pretty unfriendly folk if you ask me. I never liked them and I’m not sure I’d trust them, either. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if…” The farmer stopped himself. “If what?” Herb asked. “Nothing.” Replied the farmer. “I’ll leave it at that. It’s getting late and you have a lot of farms to visit on this list. I’ll give the calls I promised, I just ask one thing.” “Sure anything,” Herb replied. “When you visit the friends I’ve referred you to on this list, kindly keep this clown out of their yard.” The farmer pointed to Steve, who was standing at the sink drying his hands. Steve was frozen by the comment and began to look flush. “I don’t think they’ll take too kindly to his phony “Farmer Joe” outfit, his filthy language or his hundred-dollar last name.” “Will do,” said Herb, “I understand. I apologize for my colleague’s language. He’s new to our company and I think he got caught up in the moment.” Herb and Steve walked out to the car and said their good-byes. As they drove down the long dirt road leading out of the farm, Herb felt immense pride in his performance and was grinning from ear to ear. Steve, on the other hand, started ranting and swearing the minute they were outside of the farmer’s earshot. “What the ****?!” He shouted. “You almost killed me back there! You are certifiably insane. What. The. ****!!!” Herb reached into his pocket for a pack of smokes and tapped the pack on the steering wheel. He was euphoric and he wasn’t paying much attention to Steve’s ongoing rant. He had done something fairly amazing, and for the first time in his life he had done it sober. He’d calmed an uncalmable pig, convinced a veteran farmer that he was expert on farming, and walked away with some interesting and valuable leads. Herb sped down the road, producing a cloud of dust as he steered the car with his knees. He lit his ceremonial cigarette while simultaneously reaching for the CD case he had brought with him. He could barely hear the distant rambling of Steve who was now commenting frantically on his driving as he gripped the dash tightly in front of him. Herb looked down at the CD he chose and smiled: Aqualung. As Herb turned the corner onto the main highway, he shifted the car into second, floored the accelerator and fishtailed out onto the paved road. His car had thrown up rocks and dirt in its wake, and now the engine was whining as he slammed it into third. The afternoon sun was casting a long, orange hue down the road that lay ahead of him. Herb inserted the CD, shifted into fourth gear, and cranked Hymn 43 loud enough to drown out the rest of what little he was hearing of Steve.
This is a great read, like novel quality great. Pasty, I'm sorry that it's taken you this long to find your calling but glad you found it here.
I read a lot of books. I mean "A LOT"! And I would have to agree with Durty. Other than you spelling Steve's alias differently almost every time, it was quality work. Keep it up. I'm hooked.
Thanks, Del and Durty. Your encouragement is very helpful. I'm sure you can imagine the raging self-doubt one has when you begin writing something like this in earnest. Del, sometimes my own typos mystify me. I ought to hire Ox as my editor. Over the years I've read enough of his posts to total in the tens of thousands of words. In all that time, I've never seen him make a single typo.
Great stuff, Pasty. I hope you keep adding to it
Dont doubt yourself bro. It's freaking great. Ever so slightly sprinkling in a few references from this board makes it even better.
Laughing in the playground get no kicks from little boys would rather make it with a letching grey or maybe her attention is drawn by Aqualung who watches through the railings as they play
Seriously Pasty, PM me and we'll discuss cover work for this. For an example, I just painted a portrait of my father (he's deceased ****ers, so you can pick at the work, but leave him out of it). It was my first painting using oils and first portrait ever. It'll improve but I think I'm onto something
He should have that lump on his neck checked out.
Eyes gripped tighter than john henrys lunch money. the hateful jaw of a pound bound terrier. I hurtled forward toward Vidalia. the iridescent clergy perched on the dash would soon lead us with a hymn. a hymn of reckoning and recompense. go tell it on the mountain you soulless cocksuckers. one more hour. youre about to get fricked at the drive thru I loaded the bowl with chicken and grabbed the torch. I drove with my knees. we called it chicken because it smelled like fried chicken when we cooked it. realized in Linus's grandmothers trailer deep in the hazardous hills of Guyton. I only brought enough to get me to vidalia. thats all I would need I was angry when I realized the whore took my sweet Dookie, our chocolate dachshund. his heart was true. he was a pal and a confidante. And yeah of course I was angry when I realized she took my sega genesis and all my cartridges. but then everything changed. that moment. that white hot second when I realized the philandering ***** took my mothers can opener. things got apocalyptic. I knew there would be crime tape and bodies. that rusty sunbeam co-225 had been in my family for over 40 years. It opened every high life my father ever drank. when I was born my mother opened cans of sweet carnation to salve her tattered nipples and nurse her handsome little man. she'd later use it when making every after school potted meat sandwich I ever tasted. here I come *****. here I come...
You would have never guessed this of me if you had known me in my younger days. I was not the mean-spirited type of kid that usually foreshadows the spiteful and dangerous adult I have become. I never pulled the wings off of flies or tortured the neighbor’s kittens; sure, I burned a few ants with a magnifying glass, but who hasn’t. I was, instead, a rather sweet and forgiving person. I forgave my alcoholic father for his Sasquatchian romps though our family harmony. He was as mean as a trapped opossum and as stupid as a carnival vendor, but he never physically harmed me. I forgave my best friend, Andy, for sleeping with my high school sweetheart after she left me. He is now a distant maggot-eating, slime-sucking, someone-I-used-to-know son of a *****, but forgiven. I even forgave my older sister, Julie, for telling me she got an abortion at age 17 and making me keep the secret. As a 13 year old, I was mortified, especially since she never told me of the father. In my mind, I created this huge ugly older man, chocolate as a Hershey Bar, pounding my sister from behind with sweat popping from his body as she moaned with the satisifed look she has when she takes a bite of cotton candy at the fair. But I am no longer that man. I would go to bed angry, night after hellish night, only to wake up with an optimism and a fresh approach. The pounding my heart took the day before having restored itself like a balloon reinflated, I would promise myself to smother the ***** with kindness and thereby force her to adapt and revert into the girl I thought I married. Only to again be pounded, berated, belittled, and *****ed into submission, frustration and anger again and again. Until the day came when I woke up and the place on my heart remained flat. It scarred and calloused, became infected and grew into a living tumor of hatred, vengeance and spite. I know it is there because I can feel it throb and spasm, radiating hatred so fiercely at times, like now, that it fogs my mind, dims my hearing, and clouds my vision like a putrid fog from the fart of a three-day dead elephant. It is all I can do to keep my eyes on the road, but I will. I will keep driving, I will not let this diseased hatred kill me; at least not until I find her. Find her and take my revenge. For me and for Dookie. Here I come *****, here I come...
Vidalia. What a ****ehole. If it weren't for onions and Florida and I-75 and I-16, nobody would have ever heard of the place. And the space it now occupies would be full of pine trees and wild hog and deer ****e. But the ground is so fertile you can piss on it and grow kidneys. And God the girls. I'm not talking about the over 35's that wear their over-stressed tights and riding boots to try and emulate the college girls who come home with the latest styles. I'm talking about the ones like her. I started noticing her when she was first allowed to come to football games without her parents. They would drop her and her friends off and they had the run of the stadium. I was a freshman with no playing time so I had plenty of time to look around. It wasn't until she became a cheerleader and I became a starter that she really came onto my radar. God has never created a better pair of legs than the ones that sprouted from that short cheer leading skirt. My heart pounded every time she came onto the field to give hugs after a game those first few times. It wasn't long until we were in the back seat of my '76 Monte Carlo doing things that her daddy probably wouldn't have approved of. I was first the teacher, then I became the student. She was full of life and enthusiasm and willing to try anything. Her folks were both alcoholics, and she inherited the dependency. Everybody in Vidalia drank liquor. The more affluent smoked weed. The most affluent could afford coke or at least steal pills from their parents. By my senior year we were veterans. And she was a girl gone wild.
I heard Cobb Dawg did Vidalia in the ****hole but what could you really expect from a poor county girl named after an onion? Seriously, were her parents stoned that weekend or just such loathsome trailer trash they thought only of their cheap amusement instead of the lifelong torment and deflated self esteem that would lead to a life of prostitution with a client list littered exclusively with dwarfs and cajuns with weird sexual practices involving waterfowl smeared with swine feces. Since Cobb Dawg was a midget in a traveling Mexican minstrel show I guess it came as relief to each when the sun went down and darkness soaked with low rent liquor closed in on both of them in a sweet sticky embrace. Still, even in the 3am terror sweats both dreamed of a bigger, bolder, broader life of carny workers or septic system semi professionals. Life was simple as Cobb Dawg enjoyed peeling back Vidalia's layers and she enjoyed it was all over before she really had do do anything of great effort, well at least not until he asked for a ...
DISCLAIMER---this is from another failed novel attempt at dogvent or rant....just ran across it somehow...too funny to not share since ours is dead also...
That is some good schit bro
Nobody likes Chef Leppard but you and me Cooter?
Might be funniest shiit I've ever read.
You don't have the necessary permissions to use the chat.