Chapter 1 – The Search Begins

Posted by | September 26, 2013 | Creative, Ormondian | No Comments
Open-Book

I settle on my couch. Mac and cheese bowl by my side provides me with the nutrition I need to brainstorm. My life source is slowly depleting as I wrack my brain for something witty and charming to put into my book. Despite my good intentions the next few hours pass with little productivity. Cat seems strangely friendly, rubbing up against my legs like the saucy little minx she is. Daringly I stroke her back, she responds with a well aimed claw to the eye. Tears streaming down my bloodied mug, I kick her roughly toward the door, PETA be damned. Writers block the size of Oprah’s derriere has settled in.  A knock at the door startles me. Hunched Russian from next door brandishes a pumpkin at my person. Her wizened face puckers as she explains to me in broken English that she is here to pay for my cat. Clearly the furry harlot has charmed her into some sort of traditional Russian vegetable exchange. I pry the pumpkin from her wrinkled talons and thank her. Kitty be damned, this boy needs his nutrients.  As I slice up the offending veg I ponder my options, I feel I may have to recruit some assistance if I ever want to finish this bloody book.  Several hours later I lean back in my office chair, beyond pleased with my intelligent self. This bad boy has just placed an ad in Gumtree looking for a partner in crime, a Robin to my Batman, who will ultimately provide me with all the answers. There is no way this can go wrong. The waiting game begins.

What in the Jesus did I just read- glancing upwards, grimace clear in my horrified features, I catch eyes with the man opposite, this tiny coffee table only accentuates the painful proximity between us. He asks me what I think of his writing. I respond with a small smile and tell him it’s just not what I’m looking for. That small smile takes everything I have in me to muster, my ears have just been violated by the detailed thought process he experienced during his lunch. His writings included not only complex descriptions of his foot fetish but also an in depth report of the benefits of bestiality. His appearance really doesn’t help his case. Aside from his profile resembling that of wizened bag of dicks, his greasy low ponytail, prominent brow and tiny eyes serve only to repulse me as I hold myself back from stapling his application to his, no doubt, cheesy dick. Jesus Moses his eyes are beady. Squinty little things which constantly dart across the room, only pausing to slowly dribble over the various female customers ordering coffee. When I had advertised for a co author to assist me with my book nothing could have prepared me for this assault of the senses. His overhanging gut jiggles with anticipation as a young woman and her small son enter, he grunts appreciatively as she bends over to unbutton her child’s coat. “Bet she’s got a nice snatch,” he chortles to me. That’s it, pleasantries gone. “Righto you oily fucker, you better hightail that bulbous ass outta here before I stick my spork so far up your no doubt festy dickhole you piss metal.” His petri dish of a mouth gapes at me, before he can hoist his lardy form over the delicate cherry wood, I throw my cold coffee at him. Mammaries pointing the way home he throws himself at me, no doubt attempting some sort of martial art boob slap. Deftly I leap out of the way, ain’t no way that pus-filled sac will smother this fine-ass man to the floor. The young boy cheers loudly from his position on top of the coffee machine, the mother’s shocked face peering from underneath a nearby table. Bag-of-dicks approaches from my right flank, clearly feeling the need to thrust his concave ass into my direction. I’m starting to enjoy our little dance. His growls of anger embody that of a cow in labour as his unique waddle prevents him from weaving his way through the tables. Finally, accepting defeat, dick hole announced his departure in the form of spitting obscenities, and an attempted coochy grab at a passing waitress. As his form leaves the door, a resounding applause erupts from my fellow patrons. I am the tits. However, my book is written with thoughts, not tits. My search must go on.