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There was pain and then dribble. A deep exhale.
Nate despised his new nickname. Turin. It reminded him to think of the past. His past, when he'd never have deserved such a name.
"...fucking ass-fucker-hole Jess..."
Jess was the largesse de sobriquets (a moniker only he would ever create, incorrectly translated by Nate to "large and sober"). For him, creating aliases was a professional necessity. In his machinations, the ever-evolving nicknames kept outsiders out. The amusement they derived was a mere social benefit. Only Jess and Todd were there, that morning, when "Turin" originated.
They had woke Nate up early for a job - earlier than scheduled, Nate argued. They had rolled him off the bed by lifting the head and foot corners of one side of the bedsheet (which he slept on top of, nude, so you could, if you really wanted, see his ass in toto from just outside the apartment). Todd and Jess had both, in a remarkably twin-brother-revelation-sharing way, been agape at the sheet. They had spent the previous evening mentally pummeled in front of the TV, and had unintentionally watched an entire show about the Shroud of Turin, which Todd took to mean "the shroud which belonged to Turin." There it had been again before them, recreated in body soil and grime, the bedsheet aglow in the morning light, a modern relic.
But Nate was never so filthy, certainly never sheet-stainingly so, and it hurt his head to think of how he got where he was. He still felt surprise when he found a new open gash on himself, often blackened from whatever and God Knows How old. A new compunction sort of crept into the room and swallowed him. He probably cried a bit, who knows, his stare was fixed on the tile-shoe-tile-shoe-tile pattern on the floor. The pain plus dribble returned, the urine finally breaking into a audible trickle. As he strained to release, he forgot himself entirely.
He farted and crapped and pissed at once, each apparently accelerating the other, a symbiosis of powered excretion. "Gracious Ignatius," he said aloud, looking between his legs, hovering like a woman in a dirty stall. Then, standing, he visually assessed the firmness and sphincter-smearability of the turd. He wanted badly to not use the TP. It made him think too much when he saw blood. He never thought to simply avert, stare ahead instead of coldy investigating the result of every wipe. He didn't want to think and he didn't want to feel the shame but if he didn't wipe he'd think about that later, in Jess's truck; he'd think of his smell and why the fuck he didn't just wipe.
Date Written: March 15, 2005
Author: Blister Buddy
Average Vote: 3