The Continuing Adventures of Cock Johnson, Private Detective

17 Oct

1283151899

The Continuing Adventures of Cock Johnson, Private Detective

 

Author’s Prolouge

At an office Christmas party in South Boulder I learned how to pronounce Cthulhu correctly for the very first time. I find myself lately enraged by everything. Street signs. Women in sweat pants. Men in sweat pants. Dogs in sweat pants. Nothing in sweat pants. Empty sweat pants. Octopus pajamas. Ok, maybe not octopus pajamas. Overly hair sprayed people in ridiculous positions of any power. ‘Children’s ice cream, mandrake. Shit. Children’s ice cream’. I only feel like typing the obscene.

 

Personal Hygiene in: Hell

Part 1

The private eye woke up drinking gin and tonics in the shower. He looked down at his penis, as he’s often been know to do, only to be completely horrified that it had been replaced by a short semi-flacid city, complete with it’s own shopping district, strip club, movie theater, historical housing district, a used car dealership, three Wendy’s, and what appeared to be one hell of a razor bump or a completely well stocked and fully functioning heli-pad somehow affiliated with Shell.

He let out a yelp, the kind heard normally in stories involving lost campers being chased by gigantic bears. How had this happened? What the fuck was going on here? Was this some new techno-Matrix-age-PSP-Ipod-Google-free-porn version of the clap? Or maybe something different. Or the same. Or somewhat related, sexually. “Do I have herpes?!” The private eye screamed to himself, not knowing what it really looked like to have such a thing but I mean he had heard stories, but shit, he’d never thought it was supposed to look like that.

He grabbed the bulbed end and stretched his man piece to the farthest amount that he could un-painfully stretch it. Getting his face in real close, he saw people. What looked like people. Tiny things carrying tiny umbrella looking other things, running around tiny sidewalks hailing little taxi cabs on their way to restaurants or drug deals or late night poetry readings or all of the above, everything taking place on what used to be his penis. People were watching movies and having sex on their grandmothers couches and ordering pizza with no pepperoni and swallowing blue goldfish and having there hearts broken over all on what had until recently been his dick.

He turned the water off in the shower and watched in horror as thousands of little umbrellas unfolded and shook themselves off on what used to be his crotch.

–thus ends part 1

 

Part 2

and where did we leave off? The private eye was in the shower and fighting off panic and pure genital terror as he’s just discovered that his penis is no longer a penis. It’s now a tiny penis shaped city. The private eye is not pleased with this new turn of events. In between fits of post shower screaming, he calms down for bits and pieces and during the calmed down bits merely mumbles: This sucks.

The private eye stood in the shower with the water not running because he’d just recently turned it off, with his cock city in his hand-watching in horror as the little human shaped citizens of his penis shopped the corner fruit stands, bought newspapers from frumpy venders, walked their dogs and checked their email, microwaved TV dinners and fell in love.

Just then the light bulb in the bathroom blew its brains out and the entire room was thrown into a moldy towel flavored color of dark. The private eye screamed. All over his cock tiny lights blew up into existence, a modern dick city coming to life in the final ass fuck of day time kind of light. Tiny skyscrapers, thousands of car head lights, apartment lamps, romantic candles, all exploded into one big metropolis as seen from space looking spectacle, only his head was the thing looking from space and the earth had somehow become his crotch.

                                                                                        –to be continued again

I Can Not Stop Unless It’s Finished!

part 3

The private detective stared at the bright city for a little while in horror before flinging it screaming (the private detective screaming, not the city–or hell maybe the city was screaming as well, it all happened so fast, as these things go–so who knows) from the palm of the hand in which he’d been holding it. Being attached as it was to his half way points, the mediumly sized horror did not fly across the room or smack against the bathroom mirror or slide slow motion like but hopefully defeated into the recently goatee trim riddled sink as he’d hoped it would. It just sort of flopped back and forth a couple times, dangling between his legs instead.

Both the occupants and the architecture seemed undisturbed by such things. Why weren’t the tiny people dislodged? Why were they not falling to the cold tiled floor by the hundreds or thousands? How did the little goddamned cars and busses manage to still remain attached to the roadways? Why hadn’t the skyscrapers crumbled?

The answer to this is an easy one. It’s all gravity. The same shit that kept the detective from flying into the air and crashing his skull against Venus when the Earth was tilted at a somewhat perceptively upside down type angle was also keeping the newly constructed city from sliding off the end of his dick.

The city’s Earth was his dick.

When the thought finally crossed the detective’s head he screamed again and ran downstairs naked. He needed a drink. He’d stopped keeping liquor in the bathroom months ago. His girlfriend at the time had given him firm grief about it.

“What did she know?” the detective swore to himself as he made his way down the stairs and over to the kitchen counter where he’d left an almost brand new bottle of vodka. “She’s never had a fucking city pop up on her dick.”

He took a long drink from the bottle and then he took another one and after that he also took several more too. Maybe he caught this from her. She was an architect after all. It made sense! Shit. Wait. She wasn’t an architect. She sold lingerie and lingerie type accessories at the adult novelty store that had recently opened around the block from his apartment. What the fuck made him think she was an architect? Maybe the vodka had begun to kick in. Or maybe it was just the stress talking. The stress of having a city attached along the shaft of his penis. It was indeed very stressful. Having a fully functioning city going about it’s whatever’s between your legs while you stood in the kitchen pantless drinking vodka like it was vodka. Yes indeed. Shit like that could be very stressful.

He heard a dozen car horns bleating.

He was afraid to look down.

So instead of looking down he kept drinking instead.

Whatever happened to that girl he’d gone out with? The one that’d never bothered to go to architect school? The details were no longer immediately available to him. His mind was a crumpled up piece of paper. He was having a hard time reading it all. Some times it doesn’t do shit to write things down.

(originally published in The New Scene, Literary Journal)

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: