“There’s a bathroom on the right.”
Timmy was pretty sure that’s what the bartender said. Or sang, technically. The music had been loud, when he’d asked where the shitter was.
His teeth were floating. Balls felt like two balloons. He rapped on the door three more times. Whoever was in there was shitting a Burmese python.
This ain’t right, he thought. Do your business at home. Leave the toilet free for us with overactive bladder syndrome. He scratched the lumpy pink scars on his neck, and folded his legs knee over knee.
“Gonna tie my pecker in a knot soon,” he said. Loud, so the occupant could hear.
Creedence was on the juke, but the the song Timmy’s body yearned to sing was a classic by Urethra Franklin, spelled out G-A G-O P-E-E.
As a little kid, Timmy would jog in place and grab his crotch like Michael Jackson. Ma called it the pee-pee dance. He’d holler, “Ga’ go pee!”
Ma would haul ass to the nearest men’s room. Most times they’d make it.
On his eighth birthday, they went to Chuck E. Cheese. Timmy played an old arcade game called Rampage with Lonnie Ballou. They were Godzilla and King Kong, stomping the city. Timmy thought he could hold it for one more level…
Then his kidneys throbbed, and it was game over. Urethra belted out her yellow torch song. “Ga’ go pee!”
Never knew why he’d shouted it. Calling more attention to himself, as he booked to the pisser. Dark stain down the leg of his dungarees.
Lonnie branded him “Timmy Tinybladder.”
No sleepovers after that. No more invites to the pool.
Timmy was still bit of a loner, but tipped the barmaids well. They nudged him toward girls fit for sad sacks. He’d had a streak of bad luck since the month before.
She was a homely apple-ass blonde. Last call came, and they stared down the bar like two cannibals on a desert island. They’d chatted earlier, but both aimed higher. Shot down in flames by everyone else, they harbored no illusions. Getting picked last came natural. They left hand in hand.
The hood of her Jeep squeaked under their desperate tussling. She clawed his belt. He slobbered at her neck, fumbling with bra hooks. His bladder was fine; he’d hosed the porcelain throne and splashed water on his pecker in the sink, just in case she wanted to hum a few bars before bumping uglies.
“Hold your horses, cowboy,” she’d husked while he ground away. “Don’t go off half cocked now.” Plunged her hand in his tighty whities- the warmth nearly did him in. Long airbrushed nails tickled his boys, then fingers guided him toward vaginal Valhalla. And just as he was fixing to give that veteran Valkyrie a ride, something hit his back like a wet sack of laundry.
She squealed as he fell into her. Timmy squealed too. Whatever hit him growled, and bit the back of his neck. An urgent bulge hammered the back of his skivvies, hornier than a three-balled tomcat and twice as mean.
Timmy gripped the wipers like ski poles, kicked and flailed. The drunk blonde- never did learn her name- enjoyed the ride until his blood slicked her face. Then she screamed, and the two of them were rolling in the dirt lot. Pants and panties around ankles, the huge black dog snarling, tearing the hell out of Timmy’s favorite denim jacket.
Blondie took pepper spray from her purse and hosed both him and the hound. Left him howling in the parking lot with a pepperized pecker. The dog loped off, and she sped away, her four-by spitting gravel at his blue balls.
He’d struck out three Fridays since. Tonight, he locked eyes with a cute chubby redhead with freckles and a tongue piercing. Timmy thought about taking her doggy style in the dirt lot out back. Anything to keep his mind off draining the main vein.
He felt the pee-pee dance coming on. Muscles on fire, he squeezed his legs together tighter. Banged on the door some more. He had to distract himself, keep his mind off the raging torrent of yellow Niagara pounding at his loins. He thought about Red’s big tits, barely strapped into her black lace bra. How she snorted at his stupid jokes, and liked the tuft of chest hair sprouting from his collar.
“People are waiting!” Timmy was fixing to drop trow and water the wall.
He banged on the door, chewed his inner lip. Felt it crunch, tasted blood. How’d his tooth get so damn sharp? His blood tasted like whiskey going down.
He felt knives in his kidneys, hunching him over.
So damn hot! Keep your mind off it, he thought. Red woulda let that tongue piercing heal up, if she didn’t use it. Concentrate… hold a bit longer. Then you can take a bite outta her big bubble ass.
Timmy fell to all fours. The dam burst. He kicked his pants off, hiked a leg and hosed the wall. Marked his turf.
He heard footsteps under the music. The bartender coming, with a key, he hoped.
“Some drunk’s trying to get in the broom closet again,” the man said. “Holy shit!”
Timmy looked up, it was the bartender alright. About to shit himself. Not singing now, are you?
Timmy charged and ripped out his throat. Saw his own claws tear through rags and ribcage. He leaped into the bar room, on the scent of his prey. Scrabbled past a girl stacking chairs, crashed through the back door.
Lot was near empty. A man sat on his pickup’s tailgate. Looking real self-satisfied.
And there was red. Using her pierced tongue real good. Knees in the dirt, skirt up, big white moon rising. Matching the bad one in the sky.
Timmy four-legged it across the lot… this wolf was getting some.
_________________________________
©2011 Thomas Pluck
Tags: Thomas Pluck
June 24th, 2011 at 12:30 am
Ok Thomas what can’t you do? Great shaggy were wolf tale. Keep em coming.
June 24th, 2011 at 12:58 am
HOOOOOWL! Great stuff!
June 24th, 2011 at 6:47 am
Fantastic and funny, Tommy. Enjoyed this one. Well done, buddy!
June 24th, 2011 at 8:48 am
Guess a Bad Moon did rise! Got a good laugh out of this story! Enjoyed it.
June 24th, 2011 at 9:40 am
Perfect candidate for Depends! I loved it:)
June 24th, 2011 at 10:15 pm
Glad you all liked this one, I had a lot of fun writing it and was unsure anyone else would find it as funny as I did.
June 27th, 2011 at 8:56 am
This is very funny, nutty, and nasty. Another excellent tale, Mr Pluck.
July 8th, 2011 at 7:54 am
[...] “There’s a Bad Moon Rising” by Thomas Pluck, Flashes in the Dark [...]