Hardly Die

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

Hardly Die

John McClame, an original character, was sitting in the office of the dad from Family Matters, who had risen to become the boss of all the policemen in America. They were both old, grey, and world-weary, but only John was grizzled, and that was really the only way to tell them apart because I’m not a racist.

“You look like hell, John,” said the dad from Family Matters.

“I feel like it,” smirked John. “Nine-thirty in the morning and I haven’t had several beers yet.”

The dad from Family Matters laughed, and not a sympathetic chuckle like you would expect, but a big, bellowing guffaw, with his head thrown back and his palms slapping the desk, for about 90 seconds; it was startling and weird. Then he said: “How’s Holly?”

John did a sad squint. “She divorced me, Carl. She divorced me again. We’ve been divorced seventeen times now. That means we could get married sixteen times and we’d still be divorced. You got a light?” John had put a tobacco smoking cigarette between his lips and was patting his pockets, but he was only wearing a singlet and underpants so he didn’t have any pockets. “She don’t want nothin’ to do with me. She changed her name to Maximillian Whippet-Sharpener. She moved to France and got a job as the front half of a pantomime giraffe, in a pantomime zoo. They’ve got this… this whole pantomime zoo, Carl. Just people in animal costumes. You’ve gotta see it to believe it.”

The dad from Family Matters listened and nodded with the kindly eyes and simple wisdom of no race in particular. Suddenly fifteen trucks exploded.

“So how about you, Carl?” John said with a smirk. “Still a desk jockey, huh? Couldn’t take the heat?” He leaned out the window and lit his cigarette on a flaming truck that was flying past, demonstrating that he, John McClame, could take the heat.

The dad from Family Matters pursed his lips and looked up at the ceiling, and his hands balled into fists on the desk. You might think, “Oh, he’s inspecting the light fittings, and some mosquitoes landed on his palms so he’s squishing the mosquitoes, and also he doesn’t want any mosquitoes to fly into his mouth,” but actually it means he was sad. John noticed this due to his sensitive side.

“I shot a kid, John,” said the dad from Family Matters. “I shot a kid.”

“Jeez, Carl, I’m sorry man,” said John, smirking as little as possible.

“I just keep shooting ‘em, John. Water pistols… candy bars… yo-yos… tricycles… they all look like guns to me. I just keep shooting kids wherever I go, man. I shot fifteen kids this morning.”

“You’re a good cop, Carl,” said John, barely smirking at all. “You’re a good cop. You gotta believe that.”

“Hands, John. Hands look like guns; you ever notice that? The teacher says, ‘Now children, does anybody have a question for Officer Winslow?’ and blam! That’s twenty-five dead kids. Blam!” The dad from Family Matters put his face into his hands and began to sob. “Blam! B-blam!”

“It was an accident, Carl,” said John, smirking not even once. “Everybody makes accidents.” Gently but firmly he drew the dad from Family Matters’ hands away from his face and dried each tear with the burning tip of his cigarette. Then he put the cigarette back in his mouth and kissed the dad from Family Matters softly on the lips.

For a crucial moment they gazed into each other’s eyes. “Was that an accident, cowboy?” breathed the dad from Family Matters at last.

John pressed his calloused palm against the new friend standing between his old friend’s legs. It was as hard as a leftover twinkie from the 1980s, and bigger than average, though purely by coincidence and not for any specific, innate reason. “Yippee-ki-yay,” he whispered into the dad from Family Matters’ ear, “me-fucker.”

They got naked and made hot love inside each other; rough, determined dick-fucking with an undercurrent of grim patriotism. They were both eighty-five years old. They fucked and fucked until their pendulous old balls had run out of cum and they were shooting dusty air up each other’s arseholes. John was chain-smoking the entire time.

When it was over, the dad from Family Matters said, “America needs you for one last mission, John McClame.”

“No can do,” said John. “I always get unappreciated and I’m tired of that.”

The dad from Family Matters nodded. “I respect your decision and won’t try to change your mind. You’re an old man and entitled to a peaceful retirement. Thanks for coming in, John.” They shook hands and John McClame went home and had a nice, hot cup of tea.

A Wet Dream on Elm Street

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

A Wet Dream on Elm Street

Billie Smitherson was sound asleep after a long day of being a relatable modern teen. She was enjoying a pleasant dream about being trapped in a cupboard with several preserved animal foetuses in jars, that were, one by one, regaining consciousness and turning slowly to look at her, when suddenly and out of nowhere appeared Freddy Krueger.

“I’m gonna kill you or somethin’!” growled he.

“Gosh!” said Billie, who, it might be worth mentioning at this point, had a raging fetish for murderous nightmare spectres of dead burn victims. Her sex entrance got wet, and her lady-button swelled to the size of a beach ball, or whatever it is that happens to women when they become aroused. “Oh Freddy,” she panted, her cheeks flushed with oestrogen. “Do me up the bum!”

“No thanks, I’m gay,” said Freddy politely.

Billie was hot for gays and thrust a hungry, grabby hand between Freddy’s legs, which were suddenly paralysed, unable to turn and flee. “Yip, yip!” said Freddy’s penis, which had turned into a fluffy Pomeranian. The puppy grew several metres in length, like toothpaste being squeezed from a tube, then shimmied in the air, dancing to the five-piece mariachi band. Swarthy and mustachioed, they wore only sombreros, and had sleigh bells tied with ribbon to their unfeasibly massive erections, which they rang in time with the lively huapango as they sang. Billie’s blossoming imagination had spawned a cornucopia of bizarre sexual fetishes; a great tribe of buzzes, jollies and turn-ons – and tonight, it seemed, was the annual family reunion.

“Cripes!” went Freddy.

“I love the word ‘cripes’,” breathed Billie sexily, her tits flying out of her nightie and slapping Freddy repeatedly in the face. “That word is my number one word in terms of words that make me horny when I hear them.”

Número uno!” cried the mariachi singers.

“Let me return the favour, you big hunk of man-mince.” Billie opened a packet of doggie treats and, turning and bending over so that Freddy could see, began to poke them up her anus, one by one. She wiggled her bottom suggestively.

With an impatient bark, Freddy’s happy penis leapt forward and burrowed between Billie’s bumcheeks with mad excitement. “Thank goodness this is only a dream,” thought Freddy, but when he woke up he was pregnant or something? Anyway he learned an important lesson.