(Source: two-fisted-dynamo)

(Reblogged from somethingweird13)

williebhines:

johnrossbowie:

More yellow journalism from J. Jonah Jameson.

Threat or menace?

(Reblogged from williebhines)

(Source: )

(Reblogged from somethingweird13)
(Reblogged from swampthingy)

(Source: vferre)

(Reblogged from swampthingy)

junk mail

Someone had been sending Roger pieces of shit. Clumps of shit in little boxes, delivered via US mail. The clumps were just big enough for Roger to wonder if they came from a human or an animal. Not that he wanted to investigate too much - the first package that arrived had been a box filled to the brim with packing peanuts. Roger had to reach inside, and that’s when he felt the excrement squelch through his fingers as he dug in.

The next time, Roger thought he’d outsmart the fucker that sent it. When the box came, he slit the tape with a kitchen knife, then upturned the box and dumped out all the contents on the floor. The styrofoam peanuts were swept into the air currents, swirling around in fluttery semicircles as the clumps of shit fell to the floor with a thud. It was only then, watching the peanuts glide to the floor and cover the shit like a tarred-and-feathered medieval warrior, that Roger realized he was going to have to clean the shit from the floor, hunched over on hands and knees, scrubbing the carpet with steel wool.

The third time, Roger thought he’d really come out ahead. When the next box arrived, he simply crossed out his own address with a thick black marker, and added “RETURN TO SENDER” before dropping it at the post office. The next day, the police came to Roger’s apartment, humorless and eager to ascertain why Roger would be using the mail service to ship human waste. Roger, flustered and sweaty, tried to explain the story, his victimization, this prank he couldn’t possibly believe he deserved. By the time he was asking the police to help him, they had already put away their notepads. They assured him they’d look into it before leaving his apartment. Roger heard them laughing as he locked the door behind them.

If you’d told Roger a month ago that he’d be crouched within the bushes next to his front porch, guarding the mailbox, waiting for the mailman with a .44 gripped in one sweaty hand, he never would have believed it. But, as Roger thought without even a trace of irony, there’s only so much shit a man can take.

(Reblogged from somethingweird13)
(Reblogged from annabellehector)

(Source: arcaneimages)

(Reblogged from psychobillyhorrorshow)

breast pocket

Vince reached into the breast pocket of his shirt for his pen, the jittery messenger waiting in the doorway for a signature. Vince almost recoiled, almost made a noise but managed to hold it in, because his pocket was…wet. Not wet with water, the kind of wet anyone could spot, a telltale dark circle, but a warm, welcoming wet. Vince scrambled to the nearest desk for a pen, feeling the messenger’s impatient eyes on him, Vince wanting to sign the messenger log on the clipboard and get rid of the guy so he could focus on this new wet. This enveloping wet. He scrawled something that might have been a name and very nearly closed the office door on the messenger’s heel.

Vince was fired three hours later when Melanie, a summer intern and niece to Vince’s boss, found him in the supply closet, his slacks melted in an obscene puddle around his ankles as he thrust his hips into the pocket, his shirt splayed across the shelf that held staples and paper clips. Vince pretended to be upset, disappointed at his sudden unemployment, but the truth, the one thing he kept thinking as he packed the few belongings on his desk into a cardboard box - at least they let him keep the shirt.