Darkness Rising Part 2
And now–gird thy loins, for the sequel is here.
By continuing to read this article you agree that T.C. Orton will not be held responsible for your therapy costs, nor will you seek damages for coffee being spat at your computer/laptop screen and/or dropped all over your sausage wallet.
Based on true events…
When we last left Craig, he was blowing a steaming load of Aunt Jemima’s pancake mix out of his sizzling ham flower and praying to all the Hemworthseses for the pain to end. Then, once the tears stopped flowing and Craig had managed to squeeze back into his skinny jeans, he decided to call a man.
-A man called Dan.
-A man with a plan.
-A man whose sheets would soon be covered in last night’s flan. (Okay, that one was a stretch, but you get the idea)
The journey to Dan’s apartment was treacherous; the winds were howling, the lights were fading, the takeouts were seconds away from only serving soggy, leftover fries. It was very much like Frodo’s journey to Mt. Doom, in fact, some might say it was even worse, seeing as Craig’s one ring was one hiccup away from spraying his kidneys across the sidewalk.
Upon arriving at his destination Craig took a minute to get himself in check. He smelled his breath, fixed his floppy fringe, made sure there were no beer stains visible and gave his pits a good whiff. Looking good. He thought, intoxicated enough to believe it.
You see, somehow, in his drunken haze (and with his yogurt slinger assuming control over all brain operations) he’d completely forgotten that his backdoor was packing more hot fudge than candy store. That his right leg was wrapped in a thick thread of intestines tinsel. That his left shoe was squelching because of the mud bath his foot currently bathed in.
Regardless, he pressed onward and upward. He was buzzed into the apartment and soon arrived before the curly haired musician, who welcomed him with a soft, warming kiss.
The two proceeded to make small talk, but Craig’s drunken exuberance was too much, and the pair quickly began rolling around the sheets together. Hands exploring. Tongues tangling.
“What’s that smell?” asked Dan, a finger running circles around Craig’s stained bank account.
It was in that moment that the flashbacks started. Craig remembered everything; the squatting, the molten lava shooting out of his cum goblet, the way his knees shook as he tore his sphincter asunder.
And then… Oh, and then…. Dan pulled his hand out of Craig’s skinny jeans, and his glorious, slender, guitar playing fingers had a lovely tan to them.
Needless to say, Craig was made to sleep on the floor that night after being tossed in the shower. And he never saw nor heard from Dan ever again. All because his banana wallet couldn’t be contained.
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