Get Your Finger Out of My Ass Before I Start Digging It

(an attempt at channeling/plagiarizing David Milch)

Mike slid the glass door closed behind him and cut off the tone-deaf orchestra of shits and giggles from inside. He stepped onto the concrete patio and stared at the pool illuminated bright blue, tiki lamps, weather-proof furniture and various ceramic and stone figures half disguised in shadow from a nearly full moon.
An audible sigh left his mouth, but his shoulders failed to comply and remained on tight strings from his ears.

"It will take you a while to localize and concede your true thoughts. I could offer you a cigarette, which may not present a healthy alternative, but may at least give you the satisfaction of focusing on something that you need not wonder on it's course of malignancy," a voice drew slowly from the shadows.

Mike turned his still un-dilated eyes on a man leaning against a short rock wall which seemed to complain and plead for sympathy at being all that stood between the house and a hill of dirt that rose up behind it.

The cherry of a cigarette moved like a cursor in the moonlight as he spoke.
"Or you could grab that statue of Buddha and find your way to the bottom of the pool."

"It looks a bit heavy for one man. Care to join me?" Mike suggested.

"Ah, I am too drunk and out of shape to be of much good. The cigarette on offer has the quality of being much less strenuous to serve the purpose. Though slowly, as Kevin Spacey to pussy."

"I've been drinking more than my share from a well of booze, but it has done little to make that wash down any easier," Mike admitted, gesturing to the revery through the glass doors that played like a scene from Valley of the Dolls, but with the volume turned low.

"An ocean of liquor could not make any of that more distinguishable from horse manure nor dilute it's smell, much less guard you from the corruption of rolling around in it for any length of time."

Mike walked closer to the voice and took the cigarette that was waiting for him between the fingers of an outstretched hand.

"Mike," he offered in return.

The man smashed the last of his burning cigarette against the wall and dropped it into a pile of butts, pulled another from the pack, then held out a flame after lighting his own.

“Mike, I might suggest another venue to whore yourself while in wait for the woman’s mouth to finish tending to dirty laundry and turn it’s attention to your more salacious appetites. There is a no less eager blow job than that from a woman already sated by the poor judgment and misfortune of others. I would suggest the more seedy yet less flawed watering hole just blocks from the bottom of the hill. A drunk starved for a refill of Scotch is sure to be more enthusiastic in sucking your cock than a woman preoccupied with the politics of inappreciable gossip.”

Mike sat down in a stiff chair and was immediately pained by the rubberish bands pinching the skin of his back.

Behind him in the bright light, hand gestures and gaping mouths, mock shoving like monkeys fighting over heights in the trees.

“Pussy was not necessarily my intention. Though, it crossed my mind in the most ass to mouth of arrangements. My original purpose was quickly lost as the truth is in church.”

“Religion is a dolt’s answer to self-loathing and lack of purpose. A lie agreed upon, pussy or otherwise,” came the reply.

Mike had yet to get a good look at the man’s face, but the occasional orange glow revealed the murky, sullen eyes of a man compromised by darkness.

The man continued, “this is my lot, young man. Avoid it as you would seeing your parents copulate as it will stain your conscious. I confess the folly seduced me to the point of paying admission. And I am never the same for it. I’ve seen eunuchs carved from better stone than I, and witnessed more misery in their moving to justify themselves than there is in those bent on doing murder.”

Mike felt a chill. “My years have seen me less friendly to looking past certain qualities in the delight of pussy.”

“That pussy ain’t looking for friends. The finger tickles and invites your consent, placing you in the delicate position of walking the market hoping you go unrecognized. Do yourself a favor and leave while you can and you are still the fine man I take you for.”

Mike let go of his cigarette and crushed it beneath the sole of his shoe. He looked up and the man had seemingly slipped into the shadows and disappeared. He checked his pockets for car keys and was relieved to find all he needed to leave. He took one look back into the house and the showcase of malicious laughter and false concern.

The side gate creaked open and as he walked the side of the house, he could feel the footprints of those who had left in the same manner.


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