A story
Posted: Sun Jul 11, 2004 7:21 am
yo niggas
i wrote a story
read it
"Goddammit all to hell," Pete said, dropping a can full of garbage all over the place, "now I'm fuckin' gonna have to clean up all this shit. Look at what these motherfuckers put in their fucking garbage! There's goddamn banana peels and shit in here! I gotta quit this fuckin' job."
Pete looked off in to the distance, staring at the sunrise. The sun always fascinated Pete, ever since his childhood. Pete would spend hours staring at the rising and setting sun, pondering the meaning of existence and why man was placed on earth. It took Pete back to a simpler time in his life, back when his mother would bake the delicious boysenberry muffins that he had grown up with. His first kiss (truth or dare at Becky Tibble's boy/girl party in 6th grade), his first car (1979 Plymouth duster, 8 track, bucket seats), his first girlfriend (the bitch with the braces and the big titties), all these memories rushed back to Pete as he stared at the sun.
Peter Burneau was the type of man you see in a biker's bar, except slightly fatter. His chin was layered with several rows of fat below it, obscuring his neck from human vision. A large moustache adorned his upper lip, which, to be honest, really brought out his nose. If one good thing could be said about Pete, it would be his nose. Slightly upturned at the tip, Pete's nose was not too long, nor too short. It was not too thin, nor too fat. It was the perfect nose for a man like Pete. As for his eyes, no one really has ever seen his eyes. He has worn sunglasses his entire life. The reflective kind, like the highway cops wear. Today at work he was wearing a t-shirt, an orange vest, a hard helmet, and overalls. Usually, he takes off the vest. If he's on a date, he'll even take off the hard hat, which reveals his slightly unkempt brown hair. Speaking of dates, Peter has not been on one since his senior year in high school. His sex life as of yet has consisted solely of prostitutes and masturbation. Still, Peter was a rather satisfied man. He had a few friends, a fridge at home with beer, and a local bar. That's all a man like Peter needs, and that's all that he had.
But today, something made Pete want more in life.
"Shit, man, I gotta get laid." Peter said to the large black garbage man he shared the truck with. "Like, can you believe I have been paying for sex since 11th grade?"
"Yo, nucca, you gots to go out on the town and shit, flash your shit around know what i'm sayin', like, man, you got it, you just got to show it, you know?"
Pete pondered it a bit, and thought that it was a good idea. "Come on, then, let's hit the town!" Pete seemed very enthusiastic. However, he did not realize that it was a Tuesday morning, 5:30 AM to be precise.
"You crazy nigga, I ain't fuckin' going to drive your pasty white ass in to town, and I sure as fuckin' hell ain't doing that shit in this fuckin' garbage truck. Fuck you."
Pete actually never learned the name of the big black man, despite having worked with him for years in the same truck. He was just a big black man to Pete, and that's all he should be called, by Pete's logic. And a big black man he was; 6'7", dreadlocks, hands the size of dinner plates, eyes half closed all the time, and he was always wearing the same damned African shirt, every single day. At first, Pete thought he just had a lot of them in his closet, but it turns out that he sleeps in the garbage truck. Pete decided that he would have to guess his name to really get the point across, this time.
"Alright, Mokimbo, you're going to fucking drive us in to town or I'll have to fuckin' kill you and drive us there FOR us, you fucking prick."
The black man's eyes narrowed to mere slits. He gritted his teeth and squeezed the steering wheel with all of his might. It looked as if he were about to explode.
"Yo, whitey, get the fuck off of me. How the fuck do you think you're going to fuckin' kill me? You don't even have the fuckin GUTS, or the fuckin' GUN."
Pete smiled, and pulled a small, sleek, James Bond style gun out of his belt holster. It was slightly obscured by the folds of clothing that Pete was wearing, and it was assumed that he had had it there all day. He held it to the black man's neck,
"Drive, Mokimbo, drive." Pete cackled with delight.
The big black man was getting visibly angrier by the second. Every moment it seemed like he was contorting his face even more than the last time. His breath was vicious, like a rabid dog, and his eyes contained more fiery hate than hell itself.
Suddenly, the black man slapped Pete in the face, made a quick U-turn and knocked him out with a punch right to the nose. He headed back to the garbage dump, in order to park the truck, satisfied with a job well done.
Pete tossed in the seat of the truck, It was obvious he was slowly, but silently, coming back to the world. He saw the big black man had not noticed that he was awake, and as luck would have it, he still had the gun in his hand.
Blood splattered on the windshield.
Pete grabbed the wheel.
He opened the door and threw the body out.
Pete scooted over and drove in to town.
"It's a pity, really," Pete said to himself, "I liked Mokimbo. Shit, why didn't I take his fuckin' wallet? I need the dough."
As Pete hit himself, his garbage truck attracted the attention of 2 rather attractive females. They walked up to the truck and asked if he would like anything.
"Shit, ladies, how about you both come in and take a seat on the P-train! I just killed a man!"
The girls jumped in, and Pete proceeded to have sex with them both.
However, just before climax, Pete took the small gun and shot himself in the head three times. Nobody really knows why Pete did it, or what his life dealt to him that brought him to those circumstances, or what color his eyes really were. The prostitutes were traumatized, and eventually ended up killing each other in a mental instituation. The big black man's body was recovered months after the actual murder, and it remains a mystery to the police of the murderer of the man.
And the next day, he's gonna do it again.
i wrote a story
read it
"Goddammit all to hell," Pete said, dropping a can full of garbage all over the place, "now I'm fuckin' gonna have to clean up all this shit. Look at what these motherfuckers put in their fucking garbage! There's goddamn banana peels and shit in here! I gotta quit this fuckin' job."
Pete looked off in to the distance, staring at the sunrise. The sun always fascinated Pete, ever since his childhood. Pete would spend hours staring at the rising and setting sun, pondering the meaning of existence and why man was placed on earth. It took Pete back to a simpler time in his life, back when his mother would bake the delicious boysenberry muffins that he had grown up with. His first kiss (truth or dare at Becky Tibble's boy/girl party in 6th grade), his first car (1979 Plymouth duster, 8 track, bucket seats), his first girlfriend (the bitch with the braces and the big titties), all these memories rushed back to Pete as he stared at the sun.
Peter Burneau was the type of man you see in a biker's bar, except slightly fatter. His chin was layered with several rows of fat below it, obscuring his neck from human vision. A large moustache adorned his upper lip, which, to be honest, really brought out his nose. If one good thing could be said about Pete, it would be his nose. Slightly upturned at the tip, Pete's nose was not too long, nor too short. It was not too thin, nor too fat. It was the perfect nose for a man like Pete. As for his eyes, no one really has ever seen his eyes. He has worn sunglasses his entire life. The reflective kind, like the highway cops wear. Today at work he was wearing a t-shirt, an orange vest, a hard helmet, and overalls. Usually, he takes off the vest. If he's on a date, he'll even take off the hard hat, which reveals his slightly unkempt brown hair. Speaking of dates, Peter has not been on one since his senior year in high school. His sex life as of yet has consisted solely of prostitutes and masturbation. Still, Peter was a rather satisfied man. He had a few friends, a fridge at home with beer, and a local bar. That's all a man like Peter needs, and that's all that he had.
But today, something made Pete want more in life.
"Shit, man, I gotta get laid." Peter said to the large black garbage man he shared the truck with. "Like, can you believe I have been paying for sex since 11th grade?"
"Yo, nucca, you gots to go out on the town and shit, flash your shit around know what i'm sayin', like, man, you got it, you just got to show it, you know?"
Pete pondered it a bit, and thought that it was a good idea. "Come on, then, let's hit the town!" Pete seemed very enthusiastic. However, he did not realize that it was a Tuesday morning, 5:30 AM to be precise.
"You crazy nigga, I ain't fuckin' going to drive your pasty white ass in to town, and I sure as fuckin' hell ain't doing that shit in this fuckin' garbage truck. Fuck you."
Pete actually never learned the name of the big black man, despite having worked with him for years in the same truck. He was just a big black man to Pete, and that's all he should be called, by Pete's logic. And a big black man he was; 6'7", dreadlocks, hands the size of dinner plates, eyes half closed all the time, and he was always wearing the same damned African shirt, every single day. At first, Pete thought he just had a lot of them in his closet, but it turns out that he sleeps in the garbage truck. Pete decided that he would have to guess his name to really get the point across, this time.
"Alright, Mokimbo, you're going to fucking drive us in to town or I'll have to fuckin' kill you and drive us there FOR us, you fucking prick."
The black man's eyes narrowed to mere slits. He gritted his teeth and squeezed the steering wheel with all of his might. It looked as if he were about to explode.
"Yo, whitey, get the fuck off of me. How the fuck do you think you're going to fuckin' kill me? You don't even have the fuckin GUTS, or the fuckin' GUN."
Pete smiled, and pulled a small, sleek, James Bond style gun out of his belt holster. It was slightly obscured by the folds of clothing that Pete was wearing, and it was assumed that he had had it there all day. He held it to the black man's neck,
"Drive, Mokimbo, drive." Pete cackled with delight.
The big black man was getting visibly angrier by the second. Every moment it seemed like he was contorting his face even more than the last time. His breath was vicious, like a rabid dog, and his eyes contained more fiery hate than hell itself.
Suddenly, the black man slapped Pete in the face, made a quick U-turn and knocked him out with a punch right to the nose. He headed back to the garbage dump, in order to park the truck, satisfied with a job well done.
Pete tossed in the seat of the truck, It was obvious he was slowly, but silently, coming back to the world. He saw the big black man had not noticed that he was awake, and as luck would have it, he still had the gun in his hand.
Blood splattered on the windshield.
Pete grabbed the wheel.
He opened the door and threw the body out.
Pete scooted over and drove in to town.
"It's a pity, really," Pete said to himself, "I liked Mokimbo. Shit, why didn't I take his fuckin' wallet? I need the dough."
As Pete hit himself, his garbage truck attracted the attention of 2 rather attractive females. They walked up to the truck and asked if he would like anything.
"Shit, ladies, how about you both come in and take a seat on the P-train! I just killed a man!"
The girls jumped in, and Pete proceeded to have sex with them both.
However, just before climax, Pete took the small gun and shot himself in the head three times. Nobody really knows why Pete did it, or what his life dealt to him that brought him to those circumstances, or what color his eyes really were. The prostitutes were traumatized, and eventually ended up killing each other in a mental instituation. The big black man's body was recovered months after the actual murder, and it remains a mystery to the police of the murderer of the man.
And the next day, he's gonna do it again.