Tales of Woah (Episode #1 Corp. Shin Shines) (Other) by Jeremi B. Handrinos
Out of blue door number two in the accounting
corridor at the Noble menâs slightly Asian
bordello. On the grandest side of Poo-Hio.
Strut the daring and moderately influential
Corporeal Shin Shines. You could tell right away
by the glow upon his fingers, and those stains
upon his upper lip folds that he had been
working diligently all morning felching away
at some poverty stricken peasant's last egg hen,
and moulde cow.
Alas; the micro-phoned wind-chimes in the
Ovatorium chinkled lowest noon. And you know
what that means fellows? Time for a gloving and
diet soda poppy on the Rock a Billies. In neon socks
with matching bow tie our flat haired Corporeal
pulls rank on his fellow CRAP's
(Counting Rats At Pews) and puts himself in
a finer position for a proper mulching.
Pulling his new teeth from the front of his
digital vest. He squats down and grazes in hopes
to not see the approach of the glove when it
arrived. Life was always more livelier when one
was surprised. That's why when the glove never
came? He knew his time was near, and he punched
out, and kicked stones all the way home to the
Beaver Damn Towers. The crib of his Drats
and Dillmommas. But they had all been informed
of his shunning by the Glove, and had taken it
upon themselves to beat one another to death
with Motown 8 tracks. The scene was too much for
our hero, So he went into the closet to vacuum
forever after ever, and then some.
In the closet the skeletons piped away at
their Church Brass. Shin Shines whistled along
with them, depressed, and fidgeting with
something in his pocket. 'Twas his class ring.
A huge god-awful contraption of gold, gems,
and memories. Disgusted by the weight of the
hulking tribute, he hurled it at the Gay Boynge's
choir of ghastlies. To which they femured him a
ballad, known in the closet as the "Ballad, of
the straighter guy" That's when Shins waived
himself over a soft shelled turtle waxing with
a back full of edibles and squinties, and he got
his fix on, and it fixed nothing, not even his
rusted plumbing. Nodding away at a dessert tray
some time later, Shins, in a moment of Holy
ghost fillings, leapt up upon the sweet wheeled
gurney, and confessed to his audience of one, to
how he had accidentally forked his mom's toaster,
and sent his seed to be warehoused at the Good
Guys (an appliance outlet store). Inevitably, forcing
the Glove to shake its index finger long and back
and forth, in perpetual tsks for eternity at him.
To that our hero had an Epiphany! If I fuck my
dad it'll all be even... But the lights had dimmed
by then, and the elbow girls had shimmied on home.
The last American condor took a healthy shit on a
cool slit red Yugo out front blowing out one of
its front tires, and the magistrate was loud
speakering "Closing Time". Shins, did just that,
he closed his eyes, and made love to six portions
of hard under the tabled gum for the last time in
his splinted life, and tired daily dulleries.
After busting a gutty nut, he took off his belt
and spanked himself plum to death.
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