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Organised by
RogerDodger
Word limit
400–750
Stupid
Stupid.
A few words and I shoved the piece of paper in my pocket. What did they know? They’re pretty stupid anyways, the lot of them.
A quick turn down an alley, a few shared needles with the kind of desperate, starving men that populated half of the city, and a quick stop by that gas station run by some Charlie with his squinty eyes for a bottle of Southern Comfort. A quick drink, a familiar bite, and my troubles were gone.
I stumbled around town, letting my mind wander, not even caring about the yelling drivers I stepped in front of. One shouted some racial slur and drove off. It didn’t matter. They were pretty stupid, too.
Another turn down another alley, a few more hits of some shit I didn’t even know how to pronounce, and I found myself paying the bill to enter another cheap strip dive. The kind that serves more than soda and tits.
I didn’t even remember winding up in a seat, nor did I remember paying for the girl sitting in my lap. It didn’t matter. She said some banal shit, rubbed her ass on my pants, and expected another twenty. Whatever. The broads there were pretty stupid, too.
I felt the pavement as they threw me out. A line of blood ran down my shirt. Something about dipping my fingers into a girl’s cunt being against the rules. I didn’t bother looking back. They were all stupid.
A door slammed in my face and I felt a tooth come loose. I banged on the door a little, but she said she’d call the police if I didn’t go away. Apparently it wasn’t my weekend to visit Tim. Not that he should be seeing me like this, but I could care less.
I tripped on the front steps of my porch before pulling myself inside the ratty hovel I called home. The wallpaper was peeling and there was a slight odor of what I assumed was a dead rat somewhere under the floorboards. It didn’t matter, my nose would adjust.
I didn’t bother closing the fridge as I pulled out my last Bud. A crack and pop and the smooth, tasteless liquid found its way into the festering pit I called a stomach. I woke up the floor and crawled my way over to the couch, pulling myself up onto it to get a good night’s rest.
Before drifting off, I pulled the note out of my pocket, taking another quick glance at it before crumbling it up and throwing it across the room. Stupid, all of it.
I had cancer.
A few words and I shoved the piece of paper in my pocket. What did they know? They’re pretty stupid anyways, the lot of them.
A quick turn down an alley, a few shared needles with the kind of desperate, starving men that populated half of the city, and a quick stop by that gas station run by some Charlie with his squinty eyes for a bottle of Southern Comfort. A quick drink, a familiar bite, and my troubles were gone.
I stumbled around town, letting my mind wander, not even caring about the yelling drivers I stepped in front of. One shouted some racial slur and drove off. It didn’t matter. They were pretty stupid, too.
Another turn down another alley, a few more hits of some shit I didn’t even know how to pronounce, and I found myself paying the bill to enter another cheap strip dive. The kind that serves more than soda and tits.
I didn’t even remember winding up in a seat, nor did I remember paying for the girl sitting in my lap. It didn’t matter. She said some banal shit, rubbed her ass on my pants, and expected another twenty. Whatever. The broads there were pretty stupid, too.
I felt the pavement as they threw me out. A line of blood ran down my shirt. Something about dipping my fingers into a girl’s cunt being against the rules. I didn’t bother looking back. They were all stupid.
A door slammed in my face and I felt a tooth come loose. I banged on the door a little, but she said she’d call the police if I didn’t go away. Apparently it wasn’t my weekend to visit Tim. Not that he should be seeing me like this, but I could care less.
I tripped on the front steps of my porch before pulling myself inside the ratty hovel I called home. The wallpaper was peeling and there was a slight odor of what I assumed was a dead rat somewhere under the floorboards. It didn’t matter, my nose would adjust.
I didn’t bother closing the fridge as I pulled out my last Bud. A crack and pop and the smooth, tasteless liquid found its way into the festering pit I called a stomach. I woke up the floor and crawled my way over to the couch, pulling myself up onto it to get a good night’s rest.
Before drifting off, I pulled the note out of my pocket, taking another quick glance at it before crumbling it up and throwing it across the room. Stupid, all of it.
I had cancer.