Butthair & Seven: Episode II

By: King Stahome

Grand Junction gets cold at night. Seven was ok, because he still had Baby soundly secured to his neck, and she provided plenty of body heat for the boy.

Butthair was fucked.

He had tried, once, a long time ago, to snuggle up behind the monkey, but nearly had his testicles torn off by her fierce motherly instincts. Four days in a New Mexico hospital and sixty four stitches later, and he could barely make it an hour before he had to swallow another six or seven Vicodin. That part wasn’t bad. Vicodin has a tendency to make your mind purrrrrrrrrrrr, especially if you use a large glass of wine to wash it down with.

Tonight he shivered under the icy sky, trying to keep himself warm with the only thing Douglas Adams told him to bring on his Guide across the Galaxy: a towel. He tried to remember the warmest time he’d ever known, hoping the thought would take his mind off the soft but biting breeze that wouldn’t stop for at least one cock sucking moment…

Hard days in the Nevada strip mall, before they decided that outdoor strip malls just weren’t for the big NV, I worked for Wonder Wipes. Twenty four inch square pieces of ultra-absorbent material, they are the 8th wonder of mankind. They’re Maaaaagic, was the pitch they made us yell, going along with the bullshit Vegas hype. But truthfully, the sumbitches could soak three quarts of blood if you needed them to.

“HEY BOY,” we said, “Like the way that water spots up on ya cah? HELL NO! You try one a these wipes gonna wipe your MIIIIIIND….”

Christ, I actually said that. I actually sounded like Elvis.

I’ll tell you though; it all paid off one day.

It doesn’t take much, in my way of thinking, to have a situation that life puts you in, pay itself off. For instance, I worked at a bar, bussing tables at a wing joint. It sucked. It was all, ‘hey B, get me some napkins’ , and ‘hey Butt, clean up them bones’. So there I was, cleaning up a platter full of mostly eaten chicken bones, smells of spit and beer and Louisiana Licker sauce cranking through my head… and I shut off. I learned how to shut off. That was worth it all. The ability to shut myself down, and watch what disgusting, vile thing I was doing was worth everything I had endured up to that point.

And it paid off one day at the Wonder Wipes kiosk at the Las Vegas Outlet Mall. Not in the same introspective, life changing way the wing clean up had, but still, pretty goddamn funny:

Like I said, I hated that job. It was hot the way a furnace is hot. Hot in the way a really nice, cool drink of lemonade is not. And I had a nice group of people gathered around my kiosk, and Seven was doing his best to group the people listening as close together as they could stand. I’m going on and on about how these M-F’rs could mop the cat piss out of carpet and you’ll never, ever have to worry about water spots on your windows again when one of these two faggots standing in the back of the crowd, completely un-self-consciously asks,

“Yeah, but will it take shit out of satin?”