/lit/ - Literature

1/2
The little boy had not shit before, but knew that it was expected of him before the elders considered him a man. He had spent his entire life up to this point, 17 name days, excreting his feces the way most children did. Through his sweat glands. But the easy days of shit tinted skin gloss would soon be over. He was about to become a man. He had to shit the way a man was expected to. Through his arsehole.

He understood the mechanics of the whole thing. He knew logically, that all he had to do was keep the waste together in one spot, in his stomach and bowels. Eventually enough would gather so that he would be able to shit it out of his arsehole as a solid piece, or pieces if some of the stories were true, of shit.

"Please let it be solid." he prayed to the old gods and the new. Although a liquid shit from the arsehole wasn't strictly speaking against the rules, it was never considered a manly shit. Especially not as one's first adult shit.

It was now or never. And the elders were growing impatient. The boy climbed the 33 steps to the top of the toilet cathedral. In 200 years, the design hadn't changed much. 33 steps leading to the top of an enormous glass cube. On top of the cube was a toilet. The cube itself was filled with a clear liquid gel, sensors, and current controls. These would all work together, so that when the shit was released from the arsehole, it would be positioned by the currents to the center of the liquid, so the elders could examine it from all sides.

He climbed the 33 steps and slowly walked to the toilet. He tried to ignore the stern looks from the elders. The high priest, his father and mother, the sineater, the butcher, and the accountant were all there, and were all wearing very serious faces at this moment.

He pulled down his britches and underpants and sat on the toilet. He had made sure to eat a hearty breakfast. Blood sausage, hashbrowns, hotcakes, and just a bit of coffee to help the shit flow through. He had even swallowed a shotglass full of corn, just to add a little flare to what he hoped would be his first adult shit. And he had eggs. Although they were queer eggs now that he thought of it. They tasted funny.

>>8216953
2/2 (start of next scene)


Nine in the morning like three bowling pins knocked down by a thunderous God leaving the remaining nine for the great unwashed to aim for to pick up the spare to pick up the toasted french pastries that papa and I prepare every morning spared a morning of empty bellies as they go about their business in businesses or with business partners on their busy days of byzantine barbiturate fueled mock battles while papa has been here since last night painting today's specials on both the glass windows and floors and I have been prepping for that same amount of time drenching bread in time stream harvested pterodactyl egg yolk while speaking french incantations from a long forgotten grimoire recovered from the tomb of Maximilien François Marie Isidore de Robespierre but the missing piece of this triumvirate of breakfast fast but not cheap food lords is missing and without that missing piece there will be no one to man the cash register and we will be ruined for the morning rush and we may die. Corncob tortilla. Papa will we die?

>>8193239
2/2

I guess someone should ask, so I do. "Billy, not to stoke this hate or anything, and
don't take this the wrong way, but why had you wanted to make us all pay? I remember you
went on that long drawn out tirade back when we were painting turkeys with butter, but, well.
No one really paid attention to you much. No offense"
"Fool! Ignore this!", Billy says, as he pulls a burglar from his bookbag.
The burglar promptly starts robbing us, one by one. But unlike a standard robber, he
takes very specific amounts from us. He takes $47 from Gladys Turrington, having to actually
make change from his own pocket. Others are a few dollars short, and are forced at gunpoint
to sign IOUs, notarized by the burglar's accountant, who he had kept in his own bookbag.
He even had one of those credit card swipey machine things, so he could rob those of us who
shunned carrying cash.
Billy smiled. "All those years. You ignored me! Thought you were better than me! But I
kept a record of every wrong. And I wrote down those wrongs, and fixed a price. I knew you
would all pay one day for your transgressions. And now ", and he said a bunch of other stuff.
Not sure really, he was kind of droning on. We all politely waited for him to finish, and then
grabbed our paintbrushes and flew home.
We would paint turkeys one more time.

I'm lying down on my synthetic, cat skin, sofa, smoking type O positive laced ketamine, and listening to an audio recording of domesticated penguins having sex.

And I'm writing my masterpiece. My first Wil and testicle. Or, “My First Wil and Testicle”. It's a cop buddy screenplay about a testicle, who after being amputated from an aspiring castrato, leaves his fellow testicle to become a cop. His partner? Former child star, Wil Wheaton.

But all of this writing is giving me jaundice, so I throw the manuscript into the air, demanding it stays there, floating, until I have need of it later. I stab myself in the upper back with my pen, and twist it in until it's about halfway in, and secure, then throw the ketamine pipe on top of my tombstone. Rest in peace, pipe.

Food. I need energy after sucking down horse tranquilizer all day, and breakfast is the most important meal of the day. And night. And day. And all of the night. Chinese baby pizza. No, you sick fucks, it's not made out of Chinese babies. What kind of monster do you think I am? It's made by Chinese babies. To help pay off debts, some farmers in China sell their excess babies into pizzeria slavery. The ethics are a little sketchy, but damn, these pizzas are incredible. Honey bee crust. Delicious.

When I was older, I couldn't find the ingredients to make even the most basic of pizzas. Pepperoni had been gone for years, hunted to extinction by radical vegan extremists. We thought it an isolated series of incidents, the pepperonis didn't disappear overnight, but one morning we woke from our beds, turned on the television, and the president told us that the very last pepperoni in the world had been destroyed. If the death of pepperoni had been a long drawn out whimpering fart, the death of cheese was a sudden and completely unanticipated diarrhea shit storm violent explosion of a fart. Fuck all that noise, I had decided to revert to my younger self. In a world of pizza.

I'm running late for work. I go to my bathroom and induce vomiting to get rid of the pizza. I need room in my stomach for work, plus I plan to transition to a life of shirtlessness soon, and don't need to build up any excess fat. Brush my teeth, dry them off with an old pair of underwear, and then rub superglue over them. This helps fight the acidity of vomit that attacks the enamel. I look in the mirror and recite my reverse Gatsby opener affirmation before the glue seals my lips to my teeth.

“In my older and less vulnerable days my mother sold me some advice that I tend to forget every day. Whenever you feel like praising any one, just forget that some of the people in this world have had every advantage that you never did.”

I put on two thirds of a shirt (Small incremental steps are best when transitioning to a shirtless lifestyle) and crawl out of my window, ready for work.

>>8139753
2/2

"Hey guys. I'm back. And you are all going to pay."
I guess someone should ask, so I do. "Billy, not to stoke this hate or anything, and
don't take this the wrong way, but why had you wanted to make us all pay? I remember you
went on that long drawn out tirade back when we were painting turkeys with butter, but, well.
No one really paid attention to you much. No offense"
"Fool! Ignore this!", Billy says, as he pulls a burglar from his bookbag.
The burglar promptly starts robbing us, one by one. But unlike a standard robber, he
takes very specific amounts from us. He takes $47 from Gladys Turrington, having to actually
make change from his own pocket. Others are a few dollars short, and are forced at gunpoint
to sign IOUs, notarized by the burglar's accountant, who he had kept in his own bookbag.
He even had one of those credit card swipey machine things, so he could rob those of us who
shunned carrying cash.
Billy smiled. "All those years. You ignored me! Thought you were better than me! But I
kept a record of every wrong. And I wrote down those wrongs, and fixed a price. I knew you
would all pay one day for your transgressions. And now ", and he said a bunch of other stuff.
Not sure really, he was kind of droning on. We all politely waited for him to finish, and then
grabbed our paintbrushes and flew home.
We would paint turkeys one more time.