Hole Punch by Simmons, Garth (the dot read aloud TXT) 📕

Well good news! Finally, you are dying, and tomorrow I'm flying away to the good, old US of A! Vegas! The Grand Canyon! Texas! The Big Apple! The White House! Why did you have to be British mother? Why did I have to be born in fucking Blackburn?! You could have at least moved to London! I had to do all the hard work! I didn't come here to make peace mother, I came here to gloat! I'm leaving you behind with all the rest of the human garbage! I hope you die painful and slow! I hope me and the President will nuke this shit stack off the face of the Earth! Don't think I'll be paying for your funeral either! They can toss you in the bin for all I care! Camp America, here I come!”

SILVER SCREEN

His motorbike vrooms down the quiet road. Night lights reflect from his visor. Fast, synthesised music plays through his headphones.

“I’m in a film!”

He accelerates more.

TOOTHLESS BONE THING

In the basement of a house in the woods, the toothless bone thing sucked on nails and bits of old stuff.

“Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrr!” said the toothless bone thing.

Scant skin on face.

Many layers of dead.

“Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrr!” said the toothless bone thing.

At night, the toothless bone thing peered up through the caged window and sniffed for mice and insects.

* * *

In the basement auditorium of a university in the city, the professor pointed his stick at the toothless bone thing.

“A prime example of humanity without culture!” declared the professor to the auditorium of scribbling psychology students. “Found in a basement, suckling on nails and saying 'murrrr'.”

“Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrr!” said the toothless bone thing.

“Reduced to the state of an animal,” said the professor, he jabbed the toothless bone thing with his stick.

“Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrr!” said the toothless bone thing, weakly batting away the professor’s stick.

“Uncultured!” jabbed the professor.

“Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrr!” said the toothless bone thing, weakly batting away the professor’s stick.

“Sub-human!” jabbed the professor.

“Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrr!” said the toothless bone thing, weakly batting away the professor’s stick.

“Empty!” jabbed the professor.

“Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrr!” said the toothless bone thing, weakly batting away the professor’s stick.

“Shell!” jabbed the professor.

“Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrr!” said the toothless bone thing, weakly batting away the professor’s stick.

“OF!” jabbed the professor.

“Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrr!” said the toothless bone thing, weakly batting away the professor’s stick.

“HUMANITY!” jabbed the professor.

“Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrr!” said the toothless bone thing, weakly batting away the professor’s stick.

* * *

In the basement of a sanitarium in the city, the toothless bone thing slept on the floor. The toothless bone thing did not understand the bed it had been given.

The cleaner came in to clean the place every morning.

“Get up you rotten old thing,” she said, before she jabbed the toothless bone thing with her broom.

“Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrr!” said the toothless bone thing, weakly batting away the cleaner’s broom.

RUM SHACK

Bob Guzzler sat in the Rum Shack and looked at the bottles of rum. They were all arranged in sexy lines on the shelves. He stared at them with face distorted and aglow under flashing neon lights.

“I like rum,” he said.

“Which rum would you like to drink?” smiled Name-Badge-Molly, with a cheeky wink.

“Can I have a little taster?” grinned Bob Guzzler. “Of ALL OF THEM?!”

Name-Badge-Molly poured him a shot glass of each bottle.

Bob Guzzler guzzlered up all the shot glasses of rum.

“That’s good rum,” he said. “I’ll take a bottle of each.”

Name-Badge-Molly took his money.

“A man of large appetites,” said Name-Badge-Molly.

Bob Guzzler looked her up and down and a grin split his face.

“A large appetite for many things.”

Name-Badge-Molly passed Bob Guzzler a bottle of each brand of rum and she took his money.

Bob Guzzler guzzlered a swig of rum.

“That’s good rum!”

* * *

Next door, in the Gin Palace, Lex Sippler sipplered some gin.

GUNK

Amoeboid Acetabulum pressed a sticky protuberance against the surface of the gunk dispenser. A confident landscape flashed on the screen. Amoeboid Acetabulum felt reassured.

“This is gonna be good gunk.”

Jellified Ventricle splodged into place next to Amoeboid Acetabulum and looked at the gunk machine.

“Going for Mono again?” said Jellified Ventricle.

“Force of habit I suppose,” said Amoeboid Acetabulum. “What are you going for?”

“Anti-Body,” said Jellified Ventricle.

Just then, Biomorphic Entrail spludged through the door with implants all tingling.

“Have you received the latest signal?” asked Biomorphic Entrail. “Splidgeland just won the Spinal Olympics!”

SPOOKY MEGADRIVE

“Modern art is a curse,” said Mason Corbishley, swiping his little brush across his large canvas.

Mason Corbishley’s model stood naked, slim and large breasted, next to a taxidermied owl on a piano.

“Have you seen that new installation at the Spooky Megadrive Gallery?” she asked through her chewing gum.

“Shut your stupid girl’s mouth and never speak to me about art again,” said Mason.

“I think it says something really important about colonialism and the pervading guilt of the White Western World,” said the model.

“Pah!” scoffed Mason. “If it doesn’t adhere to the Golden Ratio then I’m not interested.”

The door of the studio flat opened and in stepped Mason Corbishley’s girlfriend, she was carrying lots of shopping.

“MASON!” she shouted, through sobs, upon seeing the model. “YOU SAID THAT I WAS YOUR ONLY MUSE!”

Mason threw down his brush.

“I can’t deal with your womanly hysteria! Nobody defines ME!”

“WHERE ARE YOU GOING!?” sobbed his girlfriend.

“For a drink!”

* * *

“I can get you into the next Spooky Megadrive exhibition,” said Jimmy Flat.

“How?” asked Mason, sipping from his tankard of rustic ale. “My ART is of a classical ilk, unlike the knock off Dadaism that the Spooky Megadrive Gallery entertains.”

“Conceptual art is a bore these days,” said Jimmy Flat. “As director of the gallery, I’m looking for something less gimmicky.”

“Well,” smiled Mason Corbishley with a jut of his goatee beard. “I am working on a triptych based on Milton’s Paradise Lost.”

“We would love to have you in our gallery,” said Jimmy. “First though, I want you to suck my cock and let me shit in your mouth.”

“WHAT!?”

“You heard,” said Jimmy. “Have you never read about the positions that Da Vinci got into