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Prince—“3121”

MoTW—“Blue Demon”

“So, what’s the plan?” she asked as she sat on my bed.

“I’m writing a story about a pony,” I said as I closed the door.

“That’s nice. How do you want to start?”

“I already started. They just found out the pony has a deadly disease
but haven’t told the girl yet.”

She laughed. “No, I’m not talking about ponies. I’m talking about sex.”

I opened the door and ran downstairs to the kitchen where I found my
mother chopping up a pig head.

“Dinner?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

I ran through the rest of the house but couldn’t find dad so I headed
back to kitchen where mom was now dropping the pig pieces into a boiling
vat of beer mixed with a tangy balsamic sauce.

“There’s a woman in my room,” I said.

“That’s nice dear. That’s better than a monkey.”

“She wants to have sex.”

“That’s nice dear. That’s better than sex with a monkey.”

“But…”

“Look at me! I’m a pig!” she said as she placed the severed pig nose
over her own and ran around the kitchen making piggy noises.

With that I went back to my room and let the woman have her ways with
me. Soon time became a blur as woman after woman came to my room to
satisfy my growing needs.

Eventually I found myself wanting more than just sex so I let myself get
turned on to the wonders of marijuana, selflessly supplied by one of the
women.
More women came to the room. Maybe some men and maybe some animals. Most
were alive, some I’m not too sure about. My time was filled with sex and
the almighty weed. The pony story was forgotten and I didn’t bathe.

One constant through the haze was the image of a monkey, that nobody
else but me seemed to see. Sometimes it was sitting on the bed’s
headboard, sometimes at the foot of the bed. It all depended on what
position I was in.

And the monkey chittered as it held something in it’s paws. Something
brown and gooey looking. Sometimes I thought I could smell it. Sometimes
it smelled like chocolate. Sometimes it smelled like shit.

It finally came crashing down when I was sitting at my desk and I saw my
unfinished pony story. I picked it up and starting reading it and then I
broke down and began to cry. My bladder decided to give out too and I
knew, as I sat in a puddle of pee, that I needed help.

I ran downstairs and found mom taking the chopped up pig head out of the
vat and placing it in the middle of the dinner table.

“Dinner will be ready in five minutes,” she said while wiping away some
pig blood from her nose.

“I’m a drug addict and I need help,” I said as new tears flowed from my
eyes.

“Of course you are dear. Tell your father and brother dinner is almost
ready.”

COMING NEXT: The downward spiral continues

Stephen Johnson

The idea of building a website with Bob came from Stephen in the days of message boards and chat rooms. We settled on the name TheWeirdcrap.com and the rest is history. Retired since he hit the ripe age of 25, he spends most his time doing odd-jobs around the house and digging thru trash bins for "stuff that's still good." Stephen has contributed several short stories and hosted the "Lunatic Ravings" column since the beggining. The idea of writing weekly columns (blogs didn't exist yet) also came from Stephen. So I guess that makes him the creator of the "blog" phenomena.

https://theweirdcrap.com

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