Jackson Warfield
"it's easy to be a bad writer, but it's hard to wake up each day and devote a chunk of your life to bad writing."
All work copyright Jackson Warfield 2009
PETER THE TRUNK
by JACKSON WARFIELD
We'd been sitting next to each other at the bar a few hours, a few days, a few years. We'd splash back beers, doing what we did best. In all the time I'd spent on that barstool next to Peter, we'd shared only a handful of words.
Sometimes a girl would come in there and if I was lucky I'd get to take her home and have a go. Peter never gave me any sort of competition, shrugging off the girls like they really, truly meant nothing to him.
That day I sat there, occasionally reaching out for a handful of peanuts to ease the hunger. After taking a big gulp, and with beer dripping from his bushy beard, he turned to me.
"Jack," he said, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his dirty shirt, "the reason I don't bother with the ladies is because I have an elephant's trunk as a cock."
I stared back at him, wondering where he'd take it from there. He sat for a few moments, took another sip and continued.
"but along with that I have these two sharp tusks where my balls should be."
I sat there, still, while he let a few moments pass.
"the trunk, they love," he winked. "but the tusks, they're another story."
I narrowed my eyes, trying to grasp his angle.
"Jack," he said, an angry frown coming to his face. "do you have any idea what it's like, trying to make love to a girl with an elephant's trunk when you have two sharp tusks that get in the way?"
I shook my head back and forth, and fought to keep my eyes from glancing down towards the crotch of his worn out pants.
Finally I answered, "no. No Peter, I don't have any idea what that's like."
He turned away, back to his beer.
"well, Jack," he mumbled, "consider yourself one lucky son of a bitch."
PETER THE TRUNK
by JACKSON WARFIELD
We'd been sitting next to each other at the bar a few hours, a few days, a few years. We'd splash back beers, doing what we did best. In all the time I'd spent on that barstool next to Peter, we'd shared only a handful of words.
Sometimes a girl would come in there and if I was lucky I'd get to take her home and have a go. Peter never gave me any sort of competition, shrugging off the girls like they really, truly meant nothing to him.
That day I sat there, occasionally reaching out for a handful of peanuts to ease the hunger. After taking a big gulp, and with beer dripping from his bushy beard, he turned to me.
"Jack," he said, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his dirty shirt, "the reason I don't bother with the ladies is because I have an elephant's trunk as a cock."
I stared back at him, wondering where he'd take it from there. He sat for a few moments, took another sip and continued.
"but along with that I have these two sharp tusks where my balls should be."
I sat there, still, while he let a few moments pass.
"the trunk, they love," he winked. "but the tusks, they're another story."
I narrowed my eyes, trying to grasp his angle.
"Jack," he said, an angry frown coming to his face. "do you have any idea what it's like, trying to make love to a girl with an elephant's trunk when you have two sharp tusks that get in the way?"
I shook my head back and forth, and fought to keep my eyes from glancing down towards the crotch of his worn out pants.
Finally I answered, "no. No Peter, I don't have any idea what that's like."
He turned away, back to his beer.
"well, Jack," he mumbled, "consider yourself one lucky son of a bitch."
"I have these two sharp tusks where my balls should be."