Clown Tear Junkies by Douglas Hackle

Author:Douglas Hackle [Hackle, Douglas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror
ISBN: 9780615878614
Google: NKF4AQAACAAJ
Amazon: 061587861X
Goodreads: 18397600
Publisher: Rooster Republic Press
Published: 2013-09-01T07:00:00+00:00

Three Blank Pages (and if for Some Reason You Don’t Like ’Em, You Can Go Find Yourself a Big Blue Dick to Choke on)

What Ever Happened to Monty Morris?

Back when Monty Morris still had eyes with which to see, I took him to see Rob Zombie’s remake of Citizen Kane. The film starred Will Smith as the eccentric, reclusive media mogul Charles Foster Kane. Will Smith’s son Jaden costarred as “Rosebud” the sled. The movie was rated Z, which meant no one under a hundred could be admitted to the theater.

But I’d never let that stop me before.

Monty and I snuck in through the theater’s back entrance without incident. I was impressed by his stealth. Of course, this was back when Monty still had legs and feet with which to be stealthy and not the single monster truck tire that functions as his primary means of propulsion today. This was also back before Monty took up the habit of perpetually screaming authentic whale song at a blaring 77.6 decibels.

Sitting front row center, we were the only two people in the theater. About fifteen minutes into the show, Monty tried slipping his arm around my shoulder.

The sly dog.

This was back when Monty still had arms and not the gimpy lobster claws that are attached to his shoulder stumps today.

I shoved his arm away. “I dig chicks, bro. You know that.”

“You looked kinda cold is all,” he said.

“Quicquid,” I replied.

Quicquid is Latin for “whatever.” Sometimes it’s cool (in an erudite, elitist, douchebag sort of way) to speak or write the Latin, Greek, or Frenchy word when there’s absolutely no reason to do so.

The movie was okay. I guess. Scene for scene, it was almost identical to Orson Welles’s original 1941 classic, which is another way of saying that the film consisted of three hours of a guffawing Will Smith sledding down a snowy mountainside using his CGI-enhanced, smiling son Jaden as a sled, so I had to wonder what was the point of doing a remake when they hadn’t even bothered to mix things up at all.

About an hour into the movie, I was bored outta my face. I lowered my head over Monty’s lap, unzipped his jeans, pulled out his cock, and gave him a C+ blowjob. This was back when Monty still had a cock and not the angry, buzzing hornet’s nest that’s affixed to his crotch today.

“Thought you didn’t swing that way, brah,” he said as I pulled my head up after I finished.

“I don’t,” I said, spitting his man-seed onto the grimy floor. “I just got bored, is all. Well? Did you enjoy it?”

Monty shrugged his shoulders, cocked his head dismissively to the side. This was back when Monty still had a head to cock, certainly long before his head ever came to be replaced by that terracotta-potted sunflower plant with Van Damme’s face emblazoned upon it, minus the Belgian action-movie star’s eyes.

“Meh,” Monty said. “I’d give it about a C+.”

“I know it was a C+, asshole. That’s what I was going for.

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