I’ll never live down that reality. I will write about it.

New Pastor to Bastard column is up at Purge ATL. 

“Hey man!” He yelled like the two of them weren’t two feet away from each other.

“What’s up?” The second man didn’t yell. His dad taught him class. His dad taught him about Burt Bacharach.

The two men stood on the sidewalk next to a Burger King pointing and sweating. Both of their breaths evaporated into cavernous stutters of existence.

“Look at this,” the more rotund man shouted. They were both barrels in their size, to a novice of anatomy passing by they would be called fat-fucks. But that’s playing it safe. A fat-fuck is more defined by their disposed presence of self-hatred than of the measurement of scales.

He grabbed a chain of gold buried deep in the forest of his chest hair. It was a necklace bearing an imitated shape of the original Nintendo controller. A red jewel for the A button. A purple jewel for the B button. Small bright blue sparkles danced on the rest of the controller. On the back an inscription read: I AM THE DESTROYER. 

As the other man saw it he chuckled. His last soda returned to his mouth for a repeat swishing of flavor, and acid.

This would be the point to imagine both men holding hands, side by side, no longer face to face. Their skin would grasp as claws onto each other, a nervous sweat producing heat enough for dead fragments to colderize. It would be a moment of enjoyment. A place of concentration. They would meditate on the process to move jelling fat for an erection. 

safetythirdenterprises:

June 2013