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Talkin' Sh*t
Part I
"Would you mind starting from the beginning? And go into as much detail as you can, if you would. Please." John hits record on his smartphone and sets it on the desk in front of him. He's a bald man with a rugged face, but caring eyes.
"Why you recordin’ this?" asks Chandler. A man with cookie dough for flesh, a mustache that resembles a stain below his bandaged nose, and the drawl of an under-educated midwesterner.
"So I can have something to listen to. To meditate on. So we can really get to the bottom of this." John slides his rimless glasses on his face to prove that he's serious.
"So what are you, Buddhist or somethin’?"
"What?"
"You said you meditate."
"Oh, uh, no I'm actually an atheist, " says John. "I meant to ponder, or to contemplate."
"Ah. I see. Well, when do you want me to start?"
"Whenever you're ready."
Chandler doesn't do so much as twitch for a solid 20 seconds as he stares into John's increasingly uncomfortable eyes. John breaks the silence. "Whene-"
"It was my first night alone with the baby, " interrupts Chandler. "We were having a lazy night of Dexter and whiskey." He raises a hand as if to ward off an aggressive dog. "The baby didn't have any whiskey, though. I'm a good dad." He laughs lightly. "I'm trying not to think about her."
“Your wife?” asks John.
Part II
I could never have imagined how bad it would be. I watch gore porn for pleasure but this knocked me to my fucking knees. The little rascal filled his diaper with the shit of a 60-year-old alcoholic with diabetes—then he just sat there and fuckin’ smiled at me. I couldn’t help but laugh at that goofy-ass grin of his, though, so I picked the little fucker up and carried him to the sink.
I managed to wriggle him out of his diaper and lay him down in his baby bath. The smell made my butthole pucker. I set the diaper aside and sprayed little dude off with the sink hose as he giggled in delight. I shined him up real nice before putting him to bed with his bottle.
His diaper remained on the counter with a smog that clung to it like a force field. I approached slowly with a towel wrapped around my face and kitchen gloves on my hands. Then, the little lump hopped a few inches to the right, and I literally shat myself.
I grabbed the first thing I could get my hands on, which was a cast-iron skillet, and smashed that diaper as if it was harboring a fugitive spider from hell.
"Owe! You mother fucker!" a muffled and mildly aggressive voice shouted from under the skillet. "Get this fucking thing off me you goddamned incel!" My already fast heart rate doubled as I lifted the skillet off the flattened, shit-filled talking diaper.
"Christ, kid. What are you, retarded? Do you just smash anything that moves with a blunt object?" the voice asked.
"Uh, who the fuck are you?" I raised the skillet as if up to bat. "And why the fuck are you in my son's diaper?"
"Never mind that. I need to ask you a favor." The diaper moved slightly as if a tiny person rolled over in a sleeping bag. "Open the diaper."
"What? No! The smell is terrible." I took a step back.
"If you break your own nose, the smell goes away for awhile, " said the diaper.
"Is that true?"
"I mean of course it's true, I'm no liar."
I slammed the skillet into my face and crushed my nose bones. He was right, all I could smell was copper. And then nothing, after the swelling started.
"Now open the diaper, Chandler."
"How do you know my name?"
The voice shouted, "Open the fucking diaper, Chand-ler!"
I stepped forward and flopped a corner of the diaper over, then the other. A mound of guacamole mixed with a vanilla snack-pack just sat there, grinning at me. The features of a face were carved into the shit. The shit-talker took a deep, relieving breath.
"Thank you. Now let's get to business. I need you to take that knife, walk into your son's room, and stab him 19 times in the forehead."
Part III
“So a piece of talking poop told you to murder your son?” John asks as he leans back in his office chair with steeply angled eyebrows. He’s heard a lot of shit. But never in his 28 years of a career has he ever, ever heard shit quite like this shit.
“Yeah, he seemed to not care so much when I told him that I would never do that. I’m a good dad,” says Chandler.
“So how did he respond?” asks John.
“He said it was a shame that I wouldn’t do him that favor, but he was sure that I’d be okay with another favor.”
“And that was?”
“He asked me to eat him,” says Chandler.
“So you ate the poop because the poop told you to. And that's when your sister found you with your face covered in poop."
“He said it was the only way he could be set free.”
John leans forward and sinks his voice into a whisper. “Do you think these delusions could be related to the loss of your wife?” Chandler straightens his back as his face splits into a plotting grin.
“You think I’m delusional?” Chandler asks sweetly.
“I think you’re in a lot of pain, Chandler.”
A disembodied voice slithers into John’s skull and says, “Fuck me, John. Fuck me the way you want to fuck your sister-in-law.”
John’s eyes widen in lust soaked horror as he meets Chandler’s gaze. They stand with haste as their breathing quickens in unison. John mirrors Chandler with a thirsty smile as the whites of Chandler's eyes shift into a deep, muddy brown.
© A. Silva
"Would you mind starting from the beginning? And go into as much detail as you can, if you would. Please." John hits record on his smartphone and sets it on the desk in front of him. He's a bald man with a rugged face, but caring eyes.
"Why you recordin’ this?" asks Chandler. A man with cookie dough for flesh, a mustache that resembles a stain below his bandaged nose, and the drawl of an under-educated midwesterner.
"So I can have something to listen to. To meditate on. So we can really get to the bottom of this." John slides his rimless glasses on his face to prove that he's serious.
"So what are you, Buddhist or somethin’?"
"What?"
"You said you meditate."
"Oh, uh, no I'm actually an atheist, " says John. "I meant to ponder, or to contemplate."
"Ah. I see. Well, when do you want me to start?"
"Whenever you're ready."
Chandler doesn't do so much as twitch for a solid 20 seconds as he stares into John's increasingly uncomfortable eyes. John breaks the silence. "Whene-"
"It was my first night alone with the baby, " interrupts Chandler. "We were having a lazy night of Dexter and whiskey." He raises a hand as if to ward off an aggressive dog. "The baby didn't have any whiskey, though. I'm a good dad." He laughs lightly. "I'm trying not to think about her."
“Your wife?” asks John.
Part II
I could never have imagined how bad it would be. I watch gore porn for pleasure but this knocked me to my fucking knees. The little rascal filled his diaper with the shit of a 60-year-old alcoholic with diabetes—then he just sat there and fuckin’ smiled at me. I couldn’t help but laugh at that goofy-ass grin of his, though, so I picked the little fucker up and carried him to the sink.
I managed to wriggle him out of his diaper and lay him down in his baby bath. The smell made my butthole pucker. I set the diaper aside and sprayed little dude off with the sink hose as he giggled in delight. I shined him up real nice before putting him to bed with his bottle.
His diaper remained on the counter with a smog that clung to it like a force field. I approached slowly with a towel wrapped around my face and kitchen gloves on my hands. Then, the little lump hopped a few inches to the right, and I literally shat myself.
I grabbed the first thing I could get my hands on, which was a cast-iron skillet, and smashed that diaper as if it was harboring a fugitive spider from hell.
"Owe! You mother fucker!" a muffled and mildly aggressive voice shouted from under the skillet. "Get this fucking thing off me you goddamned incel!" My already fast heart rate doubled as I lifted the skillet off the flattened, shit-filled talking diaper.
"Christ, kid. What are you, retarded? Do you just smash anything that moves with a blunt object?" the voice asked.
"Uh, who the fuck are you?" I raised the skillet as if up to bat. "And why the fuck are you in my son's diaper?"
"Never mind that. I need to ask you a favor." The diaper moved slightly as if a tiny person rolled over in a sleeping bag. "Open the diaper."
"What? No! The smell is terrible." I took a step back.
"If you break your own nose, the smell goes away for awhile, " said the diaper.
"Is that true?"
"I mean of course it's true, I'm no liar."
I slammed the skillet into my face and crushed my nose bones. He was right, all I could smell was copper. And then nothing, after the swelling started.
"Now open the diaper, Chandler."
"How do you know my name?"
The voice shouted, "Open the fucking diaper, Chand-ler!"
I stepped forward and flopped a corner of the diaper over, then the other. A mound of guacamole mixed with a vanilla snack-pack just sat there, grinning at me. The features of a face were carved into the shit. The shit-talker took a deep, relieving breath.
"Thank you. Now let's get to business. I need you to take that knife, walk into your son's room, and stab him 19 times in the forehead."
Part III
“So a piece of talking poop told you to murder your son?” John asks as he leans back in his office chair with steeply angled eyebrows. He’s heard a lot of shit. But never in his 28 years of a career has he ever, ever heard shit quite like this shit.
“Yeah, he seemed to not care so much when I told him that I would never do that. I’m a good dad,” says Chandler.
“So how did he respond?” asks John.
“He said it was a shame that I wouldn’t do him that favor, but he was sure that I’d be okay with another favor.”
“And that was?”
“He asked me to eat him,” says Chandler.
“So you ate the poop because the poop told you to. And that's when your sister found you with your face covered in poop."
“He said it was the only way he could be set free.”
John leans forward and sinks his voice into a whisper. “Do you think these delusions could be related to the loss of your wife?” Chandler straightens his back as his face splits into a plotting grin.
“You think I’m delusional?” Chandler asks sweetly.
“I think you’re in a lot of pain, Chandler.”
A disembodied voice slithers into John’s skull and says, “Fuck me, John. Fuck me the way you want to fuck your sister-in-law.”
John’s eyes widen in lust soaked horror as he meets Chandler’s gaze. They stand with haste as their breathing quickens in unison. John mirrors Chandler with a thirsty smile as the whites of Chandler's eyes shift into a deep, muddy brown.
© A. Silva
