Preacher Rape
They had the preacher over for leftover turkey and horse-radish casserole, a specialty of Mrs Sylvia Wong. Pastor Ron Gooden was new at the Blessed Life Tabernacle and had not heard the stories of the Wongs. He was a married man in his fifties, prematurely gray, deeply tanned, and a highly charismatic speaker. The deacons thought he needed to be taken down a peg for being so photogenic and articulate. They gave him no warning as to what would likely happen at the Wongs. It started out friendly enough, even though the preacher noticed that the Wong sons, the three of them, and the lone Wong daughter, were staring at his buttocks as he walked in the door. They spent the pre-dinner small-talk time staring at his crotch and licking their lips. Mrs Wong was the only one who really tried to engage him in conversation, though when she turned her focus to asking him about hemorrhoids and his prostate health, he felt uneasy. What was happening here? He wondered if he did the right thing in not bringing along Mrs Gooden. Shortly after he took his first bite of the casserole, he began to feel woozy. As soon as he voiced his desire to go to the bathroom, he was wrestled to the table and his pants removed. The last thing he saw before he passed out was a five-gallon bucket of lard that was placed on the table as the Wong family removed their clothes.
Foiled robbery
Zach Butcher was in the business of stealing panties. He worked as a janitor at the nursing home, and had a profitable little sideline of stealing panties to order, and selling or renting them to the old men who sunned themselves in the front yard every day. They would see women walking by and point them out to Butcher, who would follow them home, note the address, and then return later to break in and raid their laundry hampers. On his last foray he followed home a middle-aged mom at the behest of his best customer, a 82 year-old former bus-driver who was wheel-chair bound and who kept his purchases in Ziplock backs in a trunk at the foot of his bed. This evening, Butcher was desperate. He needed the $80 bucks from the bus-driver to pay his wife’s drug dealer. He decided not to wait until the woman left the house. He came in the kitchen door wearing a ski-mask as the woman was sitting down to a table of dogs. 4 pit-bulls who were seated at the table with her. Even more dismaying was the fact that she wore tights. As he charged the dinner table and attempted to rip her pants off, the dogs dogs charged him. She had big feet and the tights would not come off. The dogs ripped his esophagus out as he tried to figure out how to remove the panties from the tights with her feet still in them.
Alien abduction
Bruce was alone with his dinner of fried chicken and cornbread when they came. The aliens all looked like Conrad Bain of Different Strokes fame. Mr Drummond. But they had the bodies of well-muscled athletes, and they spoke without opening their mouths. He knew they were aliens because Bruce had been abducted 17 times before. These guys weren’t interested in mere anal probes either. These were bad guys. The last time it happened with them he had been able to put it off, to beg for time, telling them that he needed a few years and he would go peacefully. Now, 7 years later they were back meaning to take him and dissect his body. He could have moved from his little trailer on the outskirts of Charleston South Carolina, but they would have found him anyway. They told him to finish his dinner as they were particularly interested in the workings of the human digestion system. He ate slowly trying to think up a way out of it. He looked at their faces, but the expressions were impassive, patient. They had him. He couldn’t run, not with his arthritic body. He couldn’t bargain again either. They had barely let him go the first time. The chicken was like cardboard in his mouth. No ideas came. He ate bite by bite, knowing that he would be dead in a short time, unable to come up with a way to escape from the Mr Drummonds.
Newly homeless
His first afternoon homeless on the street, he saw the world for the first time as it really was. Savage, merciless, murderous. He knew those boys on the corner meant to kill him. They were young, low-ranking as far as the street-status went. He was old, a wounded animal. No education with which to get a job, no connections, either. There was nowhere for him to go. Now all he could do was wait for them to pounce. He pondered his uneventful failure of a life, and saw that this was a fitting end to it. He would die penniless on the street with no one in the world to mourn him. He was hungry. He saw a half-eaten hamburger in the trash can, and sensing that death was imminent anyway, decided that he had nothing to lose by eating it. He picked up a few half-smoked cigarette butts from the sidewalk and used his only possession, a lighter, to smoke them. He tried to decide if he should try to fight when they came or just let them kill him. He realized that in a matter of hours, possibly minutes, he would be face to face with the truth of the universe, the one that all men had to come to at some point. He wished he had done more with his time and then stopped wishing realizing that wishes stopped mattering a while back.
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