Seven Eleven

The Seven Eleven was almost completely dark, aside from a single resilient hallogen bulb somewhere in the back, flickering it's luminescent swan song. Kenny, standing outside, slipped the respirator mask over his head, completing the assemblage of his battle gear. Slowly, methodically, he and his team entered the establishment.

The place was outstandingly quiet, the kind of quiet that gives volume to thoughts of anticipated horror. Their footsteps echoed on the checkered linoleum while a rotating spit of wienies still revolved under a heatlamp, squeaking intermitently. A soft moaning sounded from behind the checkout counter.

"Abdul! Hang tight buddy, we're gonna get you out of here." Kenny rushed to his friend's side. Abdul had been like a father to him, purveying endless supplies of cigarettes and titty magazines for his enjoyment throughout the years. Now he lay on the ground in a pool of his own blood; scratched, bruised, beaten.

"I have withstood many trials as a convenience clerk. I have been shot, robbed, and ripped off by the wienie rotisserie repair guy many, many times. Who would have thought it would end like this."

"Don't talk like that, you're gonna make it, ya hear? You're gonna make it."

Abdul caughed up a little blood and said, "You should grab a slushy before they get too warm. New flavor this week, Frosty Chocolate Holocaust. This one's... on... me." He died.

***

That was not the beginning of the story. It all began with the installation of a swing set in an ordinary suburban backyard. Ed Finley, the software consultant to whom the backyard belonged, had just set it up as birthday present to his four year old son. It was a fine piece of hardware.

"Alright kiddo, you ready to go for a swing?" Ed was anxious to see the fruits of his labor pay off.

"No," replied the kid. He sat on the ground, ripping tufts of grass out of the lawn.

"C'mon Peety, Daddy'll get you started, you'll love it."

"Peety hungry."

"It's 'I'm hungry' Peety. Besides, you just ate. Alright champ, into the swing." Ed lifted Peety off the ground.

The child squirmed rebelliously as Ed attempted to wrestle him into a seat. "Me no like!"

"Yeah, well, me so horny since your mom died but you don't hear me complain. Get in the damn swing!" Eventually he managed to get his son positioned relatively securily into one of the seats. After a few pushes, Peety's screams of discontent had converted into giggles, as Ed had predicted.

"Higher, daddy, higher!" yelled Peety, gleefully.

"Alright, son! See, whadid I tell ya?" Ed gradually ramped up the power of his pushes. Wow, thought Ed, what we have here is a classic, ideal Americana scene. Like something out of the fifties. Just father and son sharing some quality time together and-

Two things happened at once. First, the swing set came apart, just as Peety was nearing the apex of his forward push. Secondly, the world's smallest tornado whipped through the backyard, courtesy of the worlds largest butterfly flapping it's wings in Tokyo, and carried Peety straight over the fence separating the Finley's backyard from the next one over.

The next yard over happened to be the property of a sixty-seven year old retired widow by the name of Mauve Yedders. Ms. Yedders had a passion for three things, as it turned out.

1.) The cultivation of bees.

2.) The cultivation of cats.

3.) The cultivation of large (or 'copious,' as was many of her clients' preferred adjective) amounts of marijuana.

The laws of highly improbable physics propelled the child into one of the hives. The structure itself broke his landing, as it fell apart fairly easily when he ran into it. This, of course, released a large swarm of bees. You may cringe at the thought of this situation, however, of all days to crash into one of Ms. Yedders's beehives, today was the day.

For as it turned out, earlier that morning, Mauve had been tending to her crop (juxtaposed directly beside the bees), but had made the mistake of carelessly leaving behind a still-burning cigarette butt when she finished. This caused a small, smokey fire that she quickly noticed from her living room and was able to extinguish rather quickly. Unfortunately, the smoke had already taken it's tole on the bees, who were still feeling the impact of the fire when Peety decended from the heavens into one of their houses.

And so, Peety found himself relatively unharmed (as the author is required to make him, seeing as he is a child), albeit covered in lazy disoriented bees and their honey.

Ms. Yedders's cats (she cared for about a half dozen, the seventh one undertook seasonal migrations) happened to love honey, and were soon eagerly darting out the pet door into the yard. And this is how young Peety Finly found himself covered in honey, stoned bees, and cats.
It was also in this particular state of being the Ed Finly found his son after hopping the fence to retrieve his kid.

How to Get a Date

For those of you who don't know me, and I know there are just piles and piles of strangers reading this, let me be the first one to tell you that I am rolling in tits. Just rolling in them, like a dog in it's own poop. I attract ladies like moths to a bug zapper.

For those of you who do know me, you are probably very aware that I'm completely full of shit.

But I'm learning. I'm learning the secret to success with the opposite sex. Do you want to know the methods behind my mojo? I, being the benevolent distributor of knowledge and wisdom that I am, am quite prepared to divuldge them to you forthwith. Want a date that isn't bought and paid for? Check it out.


Olivonius Dating Secret 1: Show her your dick.

Direct. To the point. Is not this particular organ the focal point of your motivation to seek female companionship? Don't try to deny it. Just do it, man. Rip your goddam pants open and expose the old Dickmobile, and tell her you're looking for a Dick Cave to park it in. There's no ambiguity, this is in fact a very straight forward approach we're talking about here.

Olivonius Dating Secret 2: Chop off your pinky in front of her so she knows what a badass you are.

Pinky fingers are the runts of the digit litter and you don't need them. Who was the mastermind, Pinky or the Brain? Brain. Pinky was useless, NARF. So just slice that bugger off and I donno, use it as a cue tip. When you find yourself proposing to the woman of your dreams, present the ring to her on said finger. Make sure you keep it in formaldihyde till the big day arrives.

Olivonius Dating Strategy 3: Spray yourself with Hickory Smoked Barbeque Flavor Sauce for that masculine sent.

My roommates sprayed the whole apartment with this crap and boy howdy, we had beezies lined up for miles to give us BJ's. Afterwards the place smelled like the charred remains of a sperm bank that had burnt down in a chemical fire during the annual outdoor staff cook-off. Very sexy.

Olivonius Dating Strategem 4: Puppies.

Puppies? Did I say puppies? I meant feces. Throw your feces at the object of your affection. Winning strategy all the way. Don't give me those incredulous looks. Listen, I've got two tickets to paradise right here, and they're both made of human excrement. Bet you didn't know that. Hey, don't knock it till you've tried it, jerk.

Olivonius Dating Suggestitem 5: Have no sense of humor.

Guys who get a lot of tail have no sense of humor. There's something sexy about a man who bares the same neutral facial expression throughout the whole day, and speaks in a robotic monotone. Since girls are always worried about getting mixed up with psycho murderer rapists, they can take comfort in knowing they're dating someone who is emotionally castrated. These are the manly men who will remain unmoved and steadfastly confident as they hack you to bits and stuff you into a garbage bag. Shit, even I'm a little turned on right now.

Olivonius Dating Strategerio 6: Kill her boyfriend.

Man, those boyfriends are pests, aren't they? You know, if I had a nickel for every time a girl with a boyfriend has flirted with me, I'd have a few extra nickels lying around. When girls do this, I consider it as meaning either one of two things. Either they're just trying to pump up their egos by proving to themselves that they can flirt successfully with any guy, or they're telling you to kill their boyfriends so they can have you.

I tend to lean towards the latter. Killing people is easy like Sunday morning these days. I'll let you figure out the details.


THAT'S ALL I GOT. GET THE FUCK OUT.