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

This story is a re-write of a story I posted to the workshop long ago. I have removed the thread since because I didn't the story will work out. But I have re-written it for the contest.

All throughout my life I have been prone to accidents. Accidents seemed to gravitate towards me jews towards gold. I think so anyway. I always thought it stupid that greed is dictated by race, but I have always been taught that great leaders and authority figures were wise. So I guess I should be ashamed to think that the great before us were stupid.

Here's some things that happened to me: you're seven and walking home. They're doing construction on some house two streets from your own. You don't think twice when walking under a ladder on which some fat guy is standing, paitning the walls. As he lifts his brush a few splotches of paint drip from it. Just a bunch of minute drops; and they fall into your eyes!

The paint stings, you panic and bump into the ladder. The ladder falls and the painter goes with it. And his fat ass hits you right between the eyes.

At seventeen, the school hires a bunch of students to tar the roof. You got the job. As you're tarring the roof, your pants slide down to reveal you ass-crack. Some girls are laughing at you from down below. You reach behind to pull up your pants when you knock over a bucket of tar. You look down to see the street splattered with some girl’s brains.

A few days ago, near midnight, I was in my bathroom, swirling Listerine around my mouth. When I'm in a good mood, I like to dance while doing mundane tasks. So as I was waltzing around I slipped on puddle. My head crashed against the raidiator and the Listerine shot down my windpipe.

I woke up in a hospital. When I got well enough to comprehend the situation, my doctor told me that my liver is barely functioning, and that next time if I want to get hammered I should grab a beer.

That was the fever pitch for me. I stopped taking my meds and paid an orderly to get me some alcohol. She got me rum. I downed the bottle in one gulp. An explosive pain erupted in my belly and I convulsed. I unleashed a strangled scream.

Doctors rushed into the room. I remember something pushing into the back of my throat and I choked, vomit rushing up my easophugus. I passed out as a waterfall of rum and porridge burst out of my mouth.

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

A pretty girl with blonde hair tied into ponytail walked in and sat opposite me; she had a commercial smile plastered on every cunt of a flight attendant you met.

“What's up, Alan, I'm Julie," she said. "Nice to meet you."

“Hi," I murmered, I didn't want to speak.

Then she asked me why I tried to kill myself. I looked down at my feet and then at her again.

"You're not afraid of death Al, you think it's a relief. But I also know what you seek relief from, and I can help you get that relief. I can make sure accidents will avoid you like the the plague."

I sat there, dumbfounded, until the psychologist said “I can help you, Al, you’re not alone.”

I agreed to visit her again. I went home but couldn’t sleep. Was she saying what I thought? Pure paranoia, surely.

We met in her clinic. 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.

“We are predisposed to accidents. For example, a lot of people could relate if someone said that their English teacher never checked homework except when they forgot to do it that one day of the year when their dog was run over and their grandmother was diagnosed with prostate cancer! Most people can relate to it, yet when the teacher checks the homework you're the only one who forgot to do it. Scientists themselves are baffled and they’ve been doing research since the early forties.” Julie said.

“They haven't found anything because there is nothing to find." I said.

“I want you to know that you’re not alone. There is tons of people who are accident-prone. We even have group gathering every Sunday.”

I said nothing.

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

“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 Your Noodle A Poodle".

We pulled up to a weathered shack beside the road. The shack was older than Hitler’s missing testicle. A gravel road lead to the door. I could see bugs and insects crawling in and out of the wooden planks, the windows were pools of dark water.

“Come, we’re here.” Julie said.

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 ypu enter.”

“No," I said, squeezing the gun.

“Please, Al, you don’t want this to get nasty. You made it this far, so please, we just need to make sure you’re not carrying weapons and we need to feel fully comfortable with each other in order to be honest.”

“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 masks.

I started breathing in epeleptic bursts and struggled against the restraints.

“Relax, Al.” Julie said. She sat opposite me.

The masks reminded of Hawaiian masks you'd see in a Scooby-Doo cartoon, they were 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.

I became crazier than a femenist reading a headline about rape: I knocked over my chair and flailed on the ground. I flipped myself up and a ghastly mask shot up before me. The man wearing it held a cleaver. I ducked as he swung the cleaver at me, he missed and cut me free. More people surrounded me, some were wielding knifes, some pitchforks. These fuckers slashed at me until my chest was a red waterfall. Eventually, they managed to cut off the restrains and I darted the fuck out.

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 would say they chased me like Jews after coins, but I came to the conclusion that's bullshit. I realsed three bullets. One guy dropped dead and the rest tripped over him. I burst through the door and dashed for Julie’s car. Before I got the door open, one whack-job tackled me to the ground. Luckily, he tripped over a rock and luckily his face hit a peculiarly jagged stone which cracked his skull open and his brains spilled onto the ground.

I looked up to see a lunatic with his cleaver above his head. He swung at me with amazing dexterity. By a stroke of luck he missed and chopped his dick off.

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.

I drove away into the sunset. I guess I was too gullible and desperate for explanations. I think God’s luck will eventually even out what harm satan’s luck did. So remember, don’t trust your psychologist or you might end up abducted by a cult of sex-crazed, nudist nut-jobs 