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The Ghost Of Cong Fritter's Past
7 years ago
Two teenagers sit lonely in the corner of an old bar. It is a cold day outside, and all you can hear is the wind brushing against the window. The teens are young and probably on something. The bartender could tell because their eyes looked just like cherries.
They have no concern, but one. Across the bar, sits the only other man at the booth. It is a very old man. He looks troubled, probably because he has whole meat chunks for eyes. The hipsters chuckle at the strange sight of the man.
The old man grips his glass of rum so tight, it breaks in his hand. Then, he turns his head slowly at the two teenagers. Shortly after, he screams in agonizing pain because glass shards are stuck in his hands. He crawls to the kids and would be looking at them in the eyes, but can not because his eyes are meat. “Who in the living hell chuckled?”
One of the teens slowly raised his hand.
“Well there sonny. That chuckle of yours reminds me of a story.”
“Save your breath old man, we aren't interested.”
In an instant, the old man's smile disappeared. He stared at them both with grim, dark eyes. It was all over now. The old man jumped in the air and spun in circles. He looked like a majestic butterfly. With a swift turn, he faced the boys mid-air and shot a load of tobacco into their eyes. They screamed in pain, and the old man asked once more, this time smiling.
“Do y’all mother fuckers want to hear a STORY?”
It was too late. The kids new their fate. Did I just bust a rhyme? Maybe another time. The kids sat, rubbing their eyes and prepared for whatever came next.
Slowly, the old man unzipped his zipper and zipped it back up.
They have no concern, but one. Across the bar, sits the only other man at the booth. It is a very old man. He looks troubled, probably because he has whole meat chunks for eyes. The hipsters chuckle at the strange sight of the man.
The old man grips his glass of rum so tight, it breaks in his hand. Then, he turns his head slowly at the two teenagers. Shortly after, he screams in agonizing pain because glass shards are stuck in his hands. He crawls to the kids and would be looking at them in the eyes, but can not because his eyes are meat. “Who in the living hell chuckled?”
One of the teens slowly raised his hand.
“Well there sonny. That chuckle of yours reminds me of a story.”
“Save your breath old man, we aren't interested.”
In an instant, the old man's smile disappeared. He stared at them both with grim, dark eyes. It was all over now. The old man jumped in the air and spun in circles. He looked like a majestic butterfly. With a swift turn, he faced the boys mid-air and shot a load of tobacco into their eyes. They screamed in pain, and the old man asked once more, this time smiling.
“Do y’all mother fuckers want to hear a STORY?”
It was too late. The kids new their fate. Did I just bust a rhyme? Maybe another time. The kids sat, rubbing their eyes and prepared for whatever came next.
Slowly, the old man unzipped his zipper and zipped it back up.
