By: Dogdeity11 and a host of other storymash authors seeking everlasting salvation
Have you ever woken up on the bathroom floor, your face resting in a pool of foul smelling bile-yellow and chunky soup orange vomit, head trumpeting, muscles cramped, ribs and abs aching from convulsions, and a mysterious wet stain on the crotch of your jeans. Well have you?
I did this morning…and you my friend, could have just as easily been there with me.
In fact, one of you was.
At least it was what I perceived to be ‘this’ morning.
How long ago was that?
Really…it was just the interval of time that followed the night in which I…possibly WE, consumed a fifth of Baileys Irish whiskey and two half pints of Jack Daniels. Mixed together with ice the two create a delightfully intoxicating combo.
Night before that it was Grey Goose straight up.
Long before that it was pitchers of margaritas.
Every night…something different.
Every day, same old **** headache.
And now the nose bleeds. Too much blow..?
What I remember of you dear friends…is at best fleeting.
Glimpses of childhood events. Injuries…broken bones, broken hearts.
First sexual experiences. Some forced. Some tantalizing.
Bank accounts and pay checks. Enemies.
Fist fights and sensual massages.
And hate…and love…and hate…and love….and hate…
All these different emotions, felt through different minds with different agendas.
And each morning, a different penmanship scrawled across the pages of my own personal notebook.
Short stories for Hell.
Stories about shrouds and stories about cats named History.
Stories about tainted contests and stories about guns and devils and cops and about loss…
Each morning I wake up in a different part of the house, with a distinct hangover and with throbbing, beating memories of someone else’s hopes and fears and desires and losses.
And someone else’s style.
That’s what they want from me, from us…these imps.
They dance upon the plate glass window of my living room, masquerading as raindrops…dovetailing their sex in and out of each other. Meshing. Mashing.
They enter my room, night after night, as moonlight, as popular television shows, as microwaveable dinners, as new flavors of Pringles.
They approach me once we’ve had enough to drink and exclaim my greatness and stroke my ego…and our shaft, or our clit.
Whatever you got.
Demons. Hellions. Windigos.
Shai'tan himself came one full moon night and as I, (someone inside me…maybe you), finished printing the last careful words of a masterpiece in short story fiction…he enveloped me in darkness and spoke, in a naked and blasphemous voice:
“One day soon eleven…your final judgment will come. Will you be successful? Will you maintain your soul like Dickens, Bradbury, Poe…weaving poetic tales of misfortunes and sultry nights and lost loves found again only to be lost again, and rocket ships and burning books and…and…‘For the Love of God, Montresor!’
(The Devil paused here, eyes closed…apparently savoring the moment.)
“Will you capture the vacant hearts of my sinful demons and debut your work in Hells top ten list, like Palahniuk, Garland, Rice? Or will you languish among the bottom…your tales filled with half hearted emotions and drunken one liners no one understands but the lot who surrounded you when they thought you were going to amount to something. Will you be Clive Barker…Ursula Le Guin…Hunter Thompson. Or will your soul be mine. Only your peers can help you now…”
As I sink deeper and deeper into this Dante’s inferno of black madness…I recognize my angle. I must harness this insanity…
I have to keep a needle sharp wit…now more than ever.
Each night Satan infects my intellect with another author’s desires and dreams. And each night I struggle to get to know that author and share a drink with them, and share a smoke with them, maybe even a toke with them…and then sleep with them; to make love…or to ****…or to just cuddle in the glow of the blinking digital red alarm clock light?
Each night I have to assure someone new that we in fact can win this battle…all the while having to constantly reassure myself of the same.
Fight for our right…to our souls.
Write for our right…to our souls.
My super evil incubus agent advises me:
“You must complete a book of short stories. One that will reach number one on Hells charts. You must successfully mate your mind with each of the writers forced inside you…and write…and write like a miracle.
Each new chapter will be a short story itself.
Each one a different genre.
Each one a different perspective on life…or death.
Each one with a unique style and a unique voice.
No story shall be under one hundred words and no story shall be over three thousand words.
Break these rules and you not only lose your soul, but the souls of every writer who in their heart thinks that they are good enough and bad **** enough to take part in this diabolical competition.”
I asked him how it was that someone like me…a nobody…a loner…someone who masturbates three times a day while fantasizing about Aes Sedai and who likes mustard on their pizza and who has an insatiable female foot fetish and who loves animals more than humans…how was it that I was chosen to be the body for this potentially disastrous venture…
The sickening black magic, voodoo doll fondling, **** banging werewolf humping demon from the deepest depths of hell…winked at me and said:
It’s getting late now. And I’m getting buzzed. Again.
Tonight it looks like shots of tequila.
I feel my cock vibrating with the sensations of someone new.
It’s not sexual. It’s immortal.
Is it you?
Don’t be that way…ya here.
Don’t judge me.
I’m only as sick and demented as you’re capable of comprehending.
So tonight…we write together.
Tonight, we save our souls.
My introduction is done.Chapter one starts here, with you…