BigJimsWornOutTires
Kraken
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The many liars, manipulators, and wealthy criminals outnumber the one. But when this one becomes the many, look up at the sky; it's a drone, it's an alien, it's a Chinese invader... it's a distraction.
PART I
Who hasn't heard of conspiracy theorists? From elementary children, housewives, church folks, college grads, celebrities, and grandmothers to even gimps in tight black leather, we were taught to discredit anyone who believes, follows, or pushes a conspiracy theory. But why is that exactly? Perhaps I can better explain with a metaphorical tale I call, That Stupid Fucking Whore.
Mister is a married man who owns a convenience store. The love of his life is a stupid fucking whore. She's a drunk housewife with a nasty pill addiction. She believes she has chronic pain and further intoxicates herself with legally prescribed medications. But if you ask me, her addiction is not entirely her fault.
Ten years ago, doctors took advantage of that stupid fucking whore's ignorance for propitious incentives from her husband's excellent insurance policy. They convinced her the imagined pain she was experiencing was real and not a result of an eating disorder and the antidepressants they prescribed her. She also endured a terrible childhood involving trauma and sexual abuse, and when she was 12, she was publicly shamed by her peers because of the separation of her parents. Kids mocked her and would say, "Your daddy left your mommy because of how fat, ugly, and nasty you look!" Sad, so sad. He loves that stupid fucking whore with all of his heart. But his job keeps them distant and her abundant appetite for pleasure neglected. Thankfully, he has three-lifetime buddies always there to support him—Big Bob, Little Bob, and Just Bob.
One evening, while Mister served the American public with gas for their vehicles and a little snack for their stomachs, the Bobs went to his home uninvited. They knew his wife had booze, party drugs, and loved to have fun. After knocking on the door and being greeted by that stupid fucking whore wearing inappropriate attire, they went inside.
While shaking her hips, Mister's intoxicated wife passed them a bottle of imported vodka as she swigged her Taaka. After Big Bob smashed four blue pills into powder, each of the guests, including her, got those noses filled with painkiller. They sat down and for the next half of an hour, they chit-chatted about the news, politics, and Generation Z.
Little Bob flicks on her Roku TV, while Big and Just Bob debate whether the astronauts stuck in space should stay until they die for the epic experiment.
As they watched that stupid fucking whore dose in and out of consciousness, Little Bob installed a porn app from the menu. "Check this out," he said to his buddies. A gallery of thumbnails depicting sex acts appeared. He selects one, and a fuck video starts. Just Bob looks at him with wide eyes, then turns to her. Big Bob scanned her cleavage and red sheer see-through gown—examined her smooth bare legs and licked his lip to her pink polished toenails. Meanwhile, she's struggling to keep her eyes open to the TV. Her blurry vision couldn't make out what was on the screen.
Thirty minutes later, in her bedroom, on her king-size mattress, that stupid fucking whore is butt naked on her back at the edge, nearest to the wall. Big Bob is on top of her as Just Bob is standing in between the bed and wall, holding her head in place with his pecker buried in her mouth. Little Bob is lying beside her, guiding her hand over his tiny weenie. When Big Bob is done, micropenis will take his position.
Three hours later, Mister arrives home from work. It's a little past two in the morning. He sees no dinner on the stove. Ugh, his stomach is growling viciously. The last time he ate was an hour ago—three hotdogs, four donuts, and a chili pie washed down with a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew. The alcohol aroma lingering in the air alerts him to the trash can. Suspicious, he steps on the pedal to inspect the contents inside. He sees two empty liquor bottles. He's upset. His breathing intensifies as he goes to their bedroom and pushes the door. That stupid fucking whore is still naked but in an awkward position. Her legs spread, and she's passed out on her stomach, facing him. A smear of brown on her ass cheek and another on the sheets brought his eyebrows together. He discerns a wet spot between her legs and another next to her hand. And a white substance oozed from her mouth into a fresh puddle. He says under his breath, She puked, crapped, and pissed herself again. He shouts, "Where's my dinner, woman!"
Cracking her bloodshot olives, she mumbles inaudible. Her eyes shut. The husband repeats his meal request. She utters nonchalantly, "You don't know about Operation Sheepdog." She returned to slumber. Ugh, it seemed she was talking incomprehensible babble in her sleep. He sighed and left the room.
Mister decided to make dinner himself—air-fried five pounds of buffalo chicken wings. Like every late morning, he would fall asleep on his recliner.
That day was his day off of work. Every Tuesday, his manager, Fubi, runs the night shift and closes the store. He called Just Bob and invited him and the other two over. "Pick up two cases of Heineken; it's already paid for."
"The Bank Place, right?" Just Bob knows the liquor store quite well. Of course, he does. It's always that store around the corner.
An hour later, the Bobs and Mister sat around a table tossing cards. They usually have poker and later play pool in the game room out back. Mister turned a two-level Home Depot shed into a billiard's room during the COVID-19 lockdown. However, a woman wouldn't feel comfortable inside this man cave due to the misogynistic atmosphere—posters of naked women and bikini babes strewn on the walls; gifts from the Bobs. Two empty kegs rest in a corner adjacent to a homemade bar kiosk. The broken dispenser hanging off one of the steel barrels is a job he never got around to fixing. Also, the swastika rugs on both sides of the pool table would hurt feminine feelings, especially Jewish ones. But Just Bob convinced him the Nazi dust collectors were a symbol of masculinity.
Slamming five cards down, Mister hollered, "Booyah!" He had two kings, two jacks, and a three. The fellers shook their heads in defeat and tossed their cards into the pile of chips at the center of the table. He pulled his winnings to his chest.
"Where's Mrs. America, buddy?" Big Bob asked.
"Eh, she's at the doctor's office getting her Oxycontin prescription."
"Sweet," Just Bob inserts.
Big Bob leaned to Mister and requested, "Can I get two until next week? I get my script filled then. I'll give you back three."
"You'll have to ask her, partner," Mister replied as he stacked chips ahead. "Something wasn't right with her last night, though."
"What do you mean, buddy?"
"I think she's getting sicker," Mister said. "When I got home from work, she was passed out in bed puking and-" he stopped himself from revealing more personal details—the shit on her ass and alleged piss between her legs. Just Bob and Little Bob examined each other's gazes.
"Oh, damn," puzzled, Big Bob, who then suggested, "Maybe her doctor should run blood tests or something, right?"
"Maybe."
The Bobs withheld the truth about them raping his wife last night. Not only that, they didn't ease his worry and tell him it wasn't puke but Just Bob's cum, and the shit was from Little Bob, who fucked her in her ass and wiped his penis on her and the bedsheet.
Ah, yes, they conspired to conceal this truth from an individual who believed they were best friends forever. However, Mister would soon become a conspiracy theorist after his wife got home.
"I meant that I would give you three," Big Bob said after that stupid fucking whore dropped three blue pills in his hand.
"Don't worry about it," she said and concluded with a wink. Still sitting at the kitchen table, Mister America observed the suspicious signal. His eyebrows furrowed.
PART I
Who hasn't heard of conspiracy theorists? From elementary children, housewives, church folks, college grads, celebrities, and grandmothers to even gimps in tight black leather, we were taught to discredit anyone who believes, follows, or pushes a conspiracy theory. But why is that exactly? Perhaps I can better explain with a metaphorical tale I call, That Stupid Fucking Whore.
Mister is a married man who owns a convenience store. The love of his life is a stupid fucking whore. She's a drunk housewife with a nasty pill addiction. She believes she has chronic pain and further intoxicates herself with legally prescribed medications. But if you ask me, her addiction is not entirely her fault.
Ten years ago, doctors took advantage of that stupid fucking whore's ignorance for propitious incentives from her husband's excellent insurance policy. They convinced her the imagined pain she was experiencing was real and not a result of an eating disorder and the antidepressants they prescribed her. She also endured a terrible childhood involving trauma and sexual abuse, and when she was 12, she was publicly shamed by her peers because of the separation of her parents. Kids mocked her and would say, "Your daddy left your mommy because of how fat, ugly, and nasty you look!" Sad, so sad. He loves that stupid fucking whore with all of his heart. But his job keeps them distant and her abundant appetite for pleasure neglected. Thankfully, he has three-lifetime buddies always there to support him—Big Bob, Little Bob, and Just Bob.
One evening, while Mister served the American public with gas for their vehicles and a little snack for their stomachs, the Bobs went to his home uninvited. They knew his wife had booze, party drugs, and loved to have fun. After knocking on the door and being greeted by that stupid fucking whore wearing inappropriate attire, they went inside.
While shaking her hips, Mister's intoxicated wife passed them a bottle of imported vodka as she swigged her Taaka. After Big Bob smashed four blue pills into powder, each of the guests, including her, got those noses filled with painkiller. They sat down and for the next half of an hour, they chit-chatted about the news, politics, and Generation Z.
Little Bob flicks on her Roku TV, while Big and Just Bob debate whether the astronauts stuck in space should stay until they die for the epic experiment.
As they watched that stupid fucking whore dose in and out of consciousness, Little Bob installed a porn app from the menu. "Check this out," he said to his buddies. A gallery of thumbnails depicting sex acts appeared. He selects one, and a fuck video starts. Just Bob looks at him with wide eyes, then turns to her. Big Bob scanned her cleavage and red sheer see-through gown—examined her smooth bare legs and licked his lip to her pink polished toenails. Meanwhile, she's struggling to keep her eyes open to the TV. Her blurry vision couldn't make out what was on the screen.
Thirty minutes later, in her bedroom, on her king-size mattress, that stupid fucking whore is butt naked on her back at the edge, nearest to the wall. Big Bob is on top of her as Just Bob is standing in between the bed and wall, holding her head in place with his pecker buried in her mouth. Little Bob is lying beside her, guiding her hand over his tiny weenie. When Big Bob is done, micropenis will take his position.
Three hours later, Mister arrives home from work. It's a little past two in the morning. He sees no dinner on the stove. Ugh, his stomach is growling viciously. The last time he ate was an hour ago—three hotdogs, four donuts, and a chili pie washed down with a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew. The alcohol aroma lingering in the air alerts him to the trash can. Suspicious, he steps on the pedal to inspect the contents inside. He sees two empty liquor bottles. He's upset. His breathing intensifies as he goes to their bedroom and pushes the door. That stupid fucking whore is still naked but in an awkward position. Her legs spread, and she's passed out on her stomach, facing him. A smear of brown on her ass cheek and another on the sheets brought his eyebrows together. He discerns a wet spot between her legs and another next to her hand. And a white substance oozed from her mouth into a fresh puddle. He says under his breath, She puked, crapped, and pissed herself again. He shouts, "Where's my dinner, woman!"
Cracking her bloodshot olives, she mumbles inaudible. Her eyes shut. The husband repeats his meal request. She utters nonchalantly, "You don't know about Operation Sheepdog." She returned to slumber. Ugh, it seemed she was talking incomprehensible babble in her sleep. He sighed and left the room.
Mister decided to make dinner himself—air-fried five pounds of buffalo chicken wings. Like every late morning, he would fall asleep on his recliner.
That day was his day off of work. Every Tuesday, his manager, Fubi, runs the night shift and closes the store. He called Just Bob and invited him and the other two over. "Pick up two cases of Heineken; it's already paid for."
"The Bank Place, right?" Just Bob knows the liquor store quite well. Of course, he does. It's always that store around the corner.
An hour later, the Bobs and Mister sat around a table tossing cards. They usually have poker and later play pool in the game room out back. Mister turned a two-level Home Depot shed into a billiard's room during the COVID-19 lockdown. However, a woman wouldn't feel comfortable inside this man cave due to the misogynistic atmosphere—posters of naked women and bikini babes strewn on the walls; gifts from the Bobs. Two empty kegs rest in a corner adjacent to a homemade bar kiosk. The broken dispenser hanging off one of the steel barrels is a job he never got around to fixing. Also, the swastika rugs on both sides of the pool table would hurt feminine feelings, especially Jewish ones. But Just Bob convinced him the Nazi dust collectors were a symbol of masculinity.
Slamming five cards down, Mister hollered, "Booyah!" He had two kings, two jacks, and a three. The fellers shook their heads in defeat and tossed their cards into the pile of chips at the center of the table. He pulled his winnings to his chest.
"Where's Mrs. America, buddy?" Big Bob asked.
"Eh, she's at the doctor's office getting her Oxycontin prescription."
"Sweet," Just Bob inserts.
Big Bob leaned to Mister and requested, "Can I get two until next week? I get my script filled then. I'll give you back three."
"You'll have to ask her, partner," Mister replied as he stacked chips ahead. "Something wasn't right with her last night, though."
"What do you mean, buddy?"
"I think she's getting sicker," Mister said. "When I got home from work, she was passed out in bed puking and-" he stopped himself from revealing more personal details—the shit on her ass and alleged piss between her legs. Just Bob and Little Bob examined each other's gazes.
"Oh, damn," puzzled, Big Bob, who then suggested, "Maybe her doctor should run blood tests or something, right?"
"Maybe."
The Bobs withheld the truth about them raping his wife last night. Not only that, they didn't ease his worry and tell him it wasn't puke but Just Bob's cum, and the shit was from Little Bob, who fucked her in her ass and wiped his penis on her and the bedsheet.
Ah, yes, they conspired to conceal this truth from an individual who believed they were best friends forever. However, Mister would soon become a conspiracy theorist after his wife got home.
"I meant that I would give you three," Big Bob said after that stupid fucking whore dropped three blue pills in his hand.
"Don't worry about it," she said and concluded with a wink. Still sitting at the kitchen table, Mister America observed the suspicious signal. His eyebrows furrowed.
