Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-28060931-20170205195307/@comment-28060931-20170208195121

Okay, here's the newest draft:

Problems, for me, seemed to multiply faster than Albert Einstein on Adderall. My problems aren't normal people problems; my landlord does not camp out for me on the fire escape and cancer doesn't jump down my ancestory line like depressed San Fransico residents. My problem is far worse. I have bad luck.

When I was seventeen, the school hired a bunch of students to tar the roof, myself included. As I brushing tar over roof, my pants slid halfway down to reveal my shitter. Some girl laughed at me from below. I reached behind to pull up my pants but instead knocked over a bucket of tar. I looked down to witness the girl screaming and running around, bucket on her head and,tar dripping from her body.

I was relaxing in my bathtub. As I lay there, feeling the strain of my day being carried away by the pulsing water, I heard a lock click. Then a door was opened and there came the sound of voices. Three.

"Just to make sure: it's a full-on kitchen, not, like, kitchenette," A female voice said.

"Of course and the sitting room is complete with your own flatscreen, just like you asked." My landlady said.

I jumped up in my bathtub -- they were selling my apartment! By the sound of it, they were in the kitchen(which was beyond the bathroom.)

"How big is the bathtub," another female voice said, "me and my friend like to fuck in the bath, you know. Such a romantic setting, the bubbles and all."

The girls sounded ugly so I decided it would be best if they didn't have me cornered. Footsteps were already thumping towards me so I sprang out of the bath and burst through the door. My schlong slapped my tighes as I streaked through my apartment, not looking back. I heard someone gasp and the sound of running footsteps. I threw myself against the apartment door. Outside was young lady running towards my door, she screamed when she saw me. I slipped and slid into her, sending us both skating towards the stairs. I got onto my knees and looked up.

My landlady and another young lady stood aghast at door of the neighbouring apartment. The walls were paper-thin and I mistook them for barging into my apartment. I said "oh shit!" and looked down; my dick hung fractions of inches away from the girl's mouth, her friend shouted "rapist!" and a string of pepper-spray shot me in the face. I screamed and tumbled down the stairs.

When I woke up in the hospital I decided I had enough. I stopped taking my meds and paid an orderly to get me some alcohol. She got me rum. I emptied the bottle in one gulp. An explosive pain erupted in my belly. It hurt.

I woke up with a tube in my throat and pain in my stomach. It took me three months to recover. I got a consult to a psychologist. I didn’t need one but I decided to have a test session so the Pretty Huge Dicks would stop botheing me. The sessions took place in a room one step away from Hannibal Lector's cell. The walls were white and the room was practiaccally a janitor's closet.

A girl, no more than 25, walked in and sat opposite me; she had a commercial smile plastered on every cunt of a flight attendant you met. I say walked in, but it's more ran in and jumped into the chair like she buzzing on some of that Mexican juice. The worst thing about her was that she ended every fucking sentence with an upward inflection, like a fucking valley girl.

“Wassup, Al, I'm Julie," she said. "Nice to meet you."

"Yeah," I murmered.

"So, as I hear, you tried to snuff it, tried some of Uncle Sammy's medicine, huh, or was that just another one of your accidents. Doesn't really matter, Al! Because we're to help you, Al."

I sat there, dumbfounded, until the psychologist said “Al, this 'luck' problem of yours is one you get rid of with an eraser.”

I agreed to visit her again. I became disturbed about her hyperactive personality and possible allusion to a curse of bad luck.

We met in a different office.This office was bigger and had comfy couches and oil paintings on the walls, I would name historical figures but they all look the same in those paintings. Julie came in and sat across from me.

She asked me to recount the three accidents I fell victim to. I have done so for you at the start.

“Man, you got it lucky as fuck, I once shit on a guys dick when he tried to rape me. I mean it was pretend-fetish kind of thing, so, you know, not convienient." Julie said, and I started to think she was another affect of my luck.

"He dumped me and I felt like shit because of my luck. I, thought I hit the shitpot at the genetic lottery. Maybe so. But then I met up with this group of people. They are like us -- unlucky -- and they held these meeting every Sunday so I decided to go join them one night, best night of my life. And I think you would feel better about your curse of bad luck if you joined us. So you know you're not alone."

“Thanks, but I'll pass," I said.

We sat in silence until she broke it:

“You’ll come back tomorrow, right? Or better yet, come to our meeting.”

“No, no I won't. This is the last that we'll be seeing of each other.” I said as I stomped out.

What the hell was I doing believing all this shit, how desperate was I to find some comfort or explanation. ‘’Hell, I’ll prove myself wrong,’’ I thought, ‘’I’ll go to their circle jerk of freaks.”

The next day I was back at the clinic and my doctor was in her car, ushering me in. I got in, feeling my Wilson Combat 1911 in my pocket.

We did not talk much. We just drove until we reached open country with hills and trees and pastures spread out on the lush green grass. I saw a sign just before we entered open country advertising something called "Dixy Spaghetti: Noodles That Will Make Your Noodle A Poodle".

We pulled up to a creepy old shack bang in the middle of nowhere. This was the place teens got girls drunk and had sex, and Ted Bundy probably whacked someone here too. Julie stopped the car and we got out.

I squeezed the gun in my pocket. A rusted weathercock screeched on the slanted roof. There was a smell decay in the air. It made me choke. We went in through the door; an ass-naked beefcake stood on the other side, wearing the best poker face you ever saw, I mean, the fucker was a maniquine.

“Sorry, I did not mention this but you have to take off your close before you enter.”

“No," I said, squeezing the gun.

“Please, Al, you don’t want this to get nasty. Come on, Al, don't you wann see me naked? And we need to make sure you're not carrying weapons, that too."

“No thanks. Just take my word for i-“ that was when the beefcake smashed a chair over my head.

I awoke with a headache. Hazy images chased each other in front of my eyes. I smelled tar and… burned flesh? I jerked around but leathery restrains strapped me into a splintered chair. My vision cleared and I saw that I was sitting in a circle of naked people with hawaiian masks carved at acute angles which defied the shapes of human heads. They were styled as demonic faces; red and black with jagged teeth and pointed ears.

In the centre of the room was a fire pit. I craned my neck to see into it, when I did, I sank down into my chair and heaved. Human bodies burned in there, charred black, releasing a stench of scorched flesh.

My heart rate rocketed into the something like 300 bpm. I swayed my chair back and forth until I fell to the floor. The cultists leaped at me from their chairs, wielding pitchforks and knives, and swung at me. I felt them slashing and cutting me, waterfalls of blood oozed from my wounds; but they missed some of their stirkes and cut me loose. I broke through the crowd of bouncing masks and out the door, my bare feet thudding against the bones on the floor.

I found my way to the corridor I came in. My clothes neatly laid out on an end table, I darted for my trousers, from which I pulled out the Wilson Combat.

A stampede of lunatics sprinted after me. I fired three bullets. One guy dropped dead and the rest tripped over him.

I kicked through the door and dashed for Julie’s car. Some bony dude ran after me so fast he tripped and luckily his face hit a jagged rock which cracked his skull open. A shadow fell over me. I looked up to see lunatic with a cleaver above his head. He swung at me with amazing dexterity. The cleaver missed me and swooshed down past his body and cut his dick in half.

I got into the car and turned the key which was -- luckily -- in the keyhole. I drove the fuck away. I saw some cars behind me revving up, but their engines took a lot more motivation than Julie’s ’69 Chevy.

As I drove along a country road I looked in my rear view mirror where Julie's face popped up, saying,

"You ain't gonna get away that easy bitch!"

My hands tightened around the steering wheel and I just about pissed my pants. The car swerved and danced along the roads, getting closer to the ditch with every turn.

When it stopped, we were upside down and a tree was on top of us -- the car, I mean. I crawled out of the flaming wreck and Julie slid out of the open window.

"You bastard, you think you had it hard?" Julie asked, "You're the epitome of luck comparded to us. You thought you were so unlucky! Look back at all the unlucky accidents in you life; how many were fatal? One, two, none? I killed ninteen people by accident. You were just a normal human being, we made a mistake and paid for it with our own luck, you bastard. You're just fucking clumsy, that's all, did you see my people, you cunt? They killed themselves tripping over rocks!"

I just looked at her, shrugged, and set of towards home. As I limped across the vast field, a fiery cloud rose behind me in an epic explosion, swallowing Julie's bloodcurdling screams.