/lit/ - Literature

He paid his cheque and left, rum in hand, and took to drinking. A freak torrent of snow had picked up since he entered the Moose Horn, and now the streets were cake sheen. He wandered off alone into the crushed white haze. A car veered towards him, then slickly past, mounting onto a concrete barrier. Yorick kept on without concern, only drinking and hovering his broken finger over Zappa’s name on his device screen and repeatedly mouthing, “Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.”
Saoirse pulled up beside him in her pickup, trawling along beside him. “C’mon. I’ll give you a ride. It’s miserable out here.”
Yorick marched on defiantly and slipped on—now let me check here—a discarded rotisserie chicken carcass. Not just any chicken remains, no. This was the Big One™. Honey and rum glazed with cherry tomatoes. Apple rinds. The. Little feta infinity symbols, cloves, and whole shallots emblazoned with the six-threescore-six, little gelatin penises of every racial denomination, and a dash of mystery pubic hair. Yes, only a true king can eat such a bird, an emperor. As Yorick went arse over, he reached past the Whe’l of Fortune and pinched the baggy of Zappa’s pubic hair between his fingers and pressed it close to his breast, smiling as he smacked his head off a packed mound of snow. He lay supine, and his skull throbbed, but he was happy for a brief second from where he saw things, whatever that meant.
“Nasty spill, that,” Saoirse said with a chuckle.
Yorick picked himself up, dusting himself off and booting the chicken into the waiting maw of some sort of fish demon that scooted under the water (he’ll come back to this when appropriate). “Fine,” he said and hopped into the driver’s side, crawling over Saoirse while making goo-goo ga-ga baby talk to her belly, which elicited a laugh from the gunner. His pizzle went stiff, and he came to the strange idea in his head that the child she carried was his. He sat back and cleverly hid his erection in the waistband of his zebra-print sweatpants and stared at Saoirse’s bosom, thinking of the milk and milk products, and mentioned he craved chocolate or perhaps a block of cheese.

They went back to Yorick’s, and Saoirse forced herself into the place, making pee-ew faces, kicking about empties, remaking about a hanging punching back taped with a picture of Oprah Winfrey that someone had written “9/11, she’s behind it” on. Yorick insisted he loved black women and didn’t discriminate fucking material when Saoirse dissected his accommodations.