--- Within its first few lines, this work contains language or other material which some readers may find inane or offensive. In consideration, Stories Space has hidden the preview of this supremely mediocre selection. By choosing to view the piece in its entirety, you agree that you are 18 or older and do not object to such drivel. ---
There was this guy, he walked down the street, tripped on an atom and died. Then he went somewhere else, fuck knows where, but he went.
“I guess I’m dead,” he said.
Then he got up, stood on his feet and walked about. No sooner than he got up, did he fall the fuck back down.
“You’re dead.”
“...The fuck are you?” He asked.
“Arse.”
“Remote Control.”
Arse told Remote Control that death was fun, so they palled around together and got up to shenanigans. They’d fuck each other and then poke fun at others who didn’t have someone to fuck. Then they came against the heid guy.
“Stop fucking each other. You’re here to be tortured for eternity, not have fun.”
“You’re, what? Satan?”
“I suppose, but call me Bill. Satan’s my Christian name.”
Rather than conversing, Arse and Remote Control decided just to make out. Then they kicked Bill in the balls. Bill didn’t like that, so next time he saw them, he killed them. Smashed their heads in, he did.
“You actually can’t die. You’re dead already. So, are you two going to stop fucking?”
“Nope. We’re in love.”
That was the nail in the coffin. They were finally transported to some other place. It was all magical and shit. It was literally made of sparkling shit. As in sparkling excrement.
Shut up, distraction, I’m not listening.
Excrement that sparkled. Because that’s heaven, for some fucking weird reason. Don’t ask me why, I’m only writing this crap down.
“Arse?”
“Aye, Remote Control.”
“What the fuck?”
“You want to fuck?”
They didn’t fuck because they both woke up in their respective hospital beds. They might have seen each other again, but who knows if they did? I bloody well don’t, so don’t be looking to me for the answer. I swear, just because I’m writing the story, you’d think I knew the answers... Well, I don’t. Bleh.
Thanks for reading the most mediocre story ever. Go about your day now. Go on, bugger off.
There was this guy, he walked down the street, tripped on an atom and died. Then he went somewhere else, fuck knows where, but he went.
“I guess I’m dead,” he said.
Then he got up, stood on his feet and walked about. No sooner than he got up, did he fall the fuck back down.
“You’re dead.”
“...The fuck are you?” He asked.
“Arse.”
“Remote Control.”
Arse told Remote Control that death was fun, so they palled around together and got up to shenanigans. They’d fuck each other and then poke fun at others who didn’t have someone to fuck. Then they came against the heid guy.
“Stop fucking each other. You’re here to be tortured for eternity, not have fun.”
“You’re, what? Satan?”
“I suppose, but call me Bill. Satan’s my Christian name.”
Rather than conversing, Arse and Remote Control decided just to make out. Then they kicked Bill in the balls. Bill didn’t like that, so next time he saw them, he killed them. Smashed their heads in, he did.
“You actually can’t die. You’re dead already. So, are you two going to stop fucking?”
“Nope. We’re in love.”
That was the nail in the coffin. They were finally transported to some other place. It was all magical and shit. It was literally made of sparkling shit. As in sparkling excrement.
Shut up, distraction, I’m not listening.
Excrement that sparkled. Because that’s heaven, for some fucking weird reason. Don’t ask me why, I’m only writing this crap down.
“Arse?”
“Aye, Remote Control.”
“What the fuck?”
“You want to fuck?”
They didn’t fuck because they both woke up in their respective hospital beds. They might have seen each other again, but who knows if they did? I bloody well don’t, so don’t be looking to me for the answer. I swear, just because I’m writing the story, you’d think I knew the answers... Well, I don’t. Bleh.
Thanks for reading the most mediocre story ever. Go about your day now. Go on, bugger off.
