Friday, November 13, 2009

The Adventures of P and H, Part 3

“Whose dog is that?” asked P, taking a seat opposite H and cracking open a beer.


“What a fucken ugly mutt.”

“He’s not so bad.”

“It’s the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen!”

“What about that creature we hauled in when we went fishing?”

“I question whether that was a creature.”

“Yeah it looked more like a turd with eyes.”

“What’s his name?”

“Did we name it?”

“Not the turd, the dog.”

“Oh. Mustard. Well, that’s the translation.”

“So he won’t answer to mustard?”


P sipped at his beer.

“Did you know that Brent Walker pulled off a horse?” he asked.

“Pulled what off a horse?”

“Pulled off a horse.”

“Where to?”

“What? He pulled the horse’s cock.”

“What for?” asked H.

“To see if it would cum.”

“And did it?”


“Huh. I thought you meant he pulled it just once, rather than repeatedly.”

“And you’re not surprised that he pulled off a horse?”

“No, I’ve met the guy. Seems like something he’d do.”

“I guess so.”


“Look at this bloke,” said P, nudging H and indicating a German backpacker who was the t-shirt factory’s latest employee. The German was working at a hell of a pace. “He’s going to make us look bad.”

“Nah. That pace is unsustainable.”

“He’s been going at it for a while.”

“I’ve seen cowboys like this before. They fold like crazy for a couple of days then burn out suddenly. Nothing to worry about. He’ll be back in Frankfurt by Friday.”


“You ever had warts?” asked H, studying the palm of his hand.

“No,” answered P, stabbing at a typewriter he’d bought from the Kalamaki market for about three dollars. It had no S. He uzed Zs inztead.

“I think I have one on my hand.”

“That’s too bad.”

“I’ve had them regularly over the years. I know what to look for.”


“You know I once had warts on my anus.”

P was suddenly listening. “What was that?”

“I had warts on my anus. A cluster.”

“I’m not interested, you dirty pig.”

“Yes you are, you stopped typing.”

“I have writer’s block. Did you get fucked by a man with a warty cock?”

“That’s what the doctor asked, although somewhat more diplomatically. But no. I have this habit of scratching my arse in my sleep. I made the mistake of doing it while I had a wart on the tip of my finger…”

“Not listening anymore.”

“…and the anus, unfortunately, is an ideal breeding ground for the virus. It was more than happy to take up residence and proliferate. I thought I had anal cancer for a minute.”

“How did you get rid of them?” asked P.

“The doctor tried to freeze them off with liquid nitrogen.”

“Tried? Did he miss?”

“No, he nailed them but it didn’t work. So then he had to cauterise them.”

“Cut them into four?”

“No, dickhead, burn them.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Of course it fucken hurt! He burned warts off my arsehole!”


"Look what I bought, “ said H, holding up a box.

“What the fuck is it?” asked P. “A box?”

“Yes, it’s a box. Was the box included in the price of the transaction? I should hope fucking not. It was provided as a gratuitous added-extra. The contents, you see, would have been difficult to transport in any other way.”

“Well what the fuck’s the contents?”

“Allow me to show you, my ludicrous associate.”

H opened the box, placed his hand inside and revealed a turtle, its legs slowly floundering as he turned it over.

“What’s that?" asked P. "A terrapin?”

“What! Are you insane? Who guesses terrapin?”

“Well what is it?”

“What do you mean?” asked H, forgetting that he was still holding the turtle.

“I mean, you cretin, what the fuck is it?”

“Are you toying with me? Have a fucking wild guess!”

“A turtle?”

“Oh, you’re a genius! Perhaps I missed the part where you obtained your marine biology degree.”

“Why do you have a turtle?”

“I have two turtles,” answered H, revealing the second one. “I intend to call this one Raskolnikov.”

“Which one?’

“Doesn’t matter. Um, this one!” He held up the turtle in his left hand. “You can name the other one.”

“Raskolnikov II.”

“Surely you should’ve called him Razumikhin.”


“You can’t just call the other one Raskolnikov II!”

“Why not?”

“It’s unimaginative, uninspired and it shits me.”

“Too bad. You told me to name it. Anyway, what do you mean 'should’ve'? If anything, I should have called it Porfiry Petrovich. Or maybe Sonya!”

“Either of those would have been good! Even Dunya!”

“You can’t annul the naming. Deal with it.”

“Fucking hell. When’s your buddy Ertapp arrive?”

“Firstly, dickwad, I don’t have buddies. Secondly, his name is Earl. Thirdly –and for the last fucking time – I don’t fucking know!”

“Well the t-shirt factory needs more workers.”

“You got shares in that fucking place?”

H looked down at himself, his filthy clothes and the sparse nature of the flat.

“Yeah, I have a share portfolio.”


Perseus said...

For starters, Raskolnikov and Raskolnikov II were tortoises, not turtles.

Secondly, your fictionalised version of my life is better than my life. I'm certainly funnier in fiction.

Perseus said...

Oh, and you left the best bit out. When we let Raskolnikov II out of the box, Raskolnikov came out from hiding (we thought he had run away), and had sex with Raskolnikov II.

We never saw either of them again.

Lewd Bob said...

I left out nothing: this is fiction.

You're far more foul-mouthed in fiction.

Turtle/tortoise? They should merge.

Mad Cat Lady said...

I think i may have an 'I <3 Lewd Bob" t-shirt made up - excellent work, Sir.

Mr E Discharge said...

Have you looked at the tax ramifications of becoming a fulltime Fictional Character?

You'd be able to write off all kinds of made up stuff, with only minimal changes in lifestyle.

Lewd Bob said...

Aw, shucks MCL. I wouldn't make the print run too big.

wari lasi said...

As usual Bob, you tell a great story.

I do wonder sometimes though what is going on inside your head.

Anonymous said...

That is great.