V-9

V-9
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Vinnie figured if V-8 was so great and everybody coulda had one, then V-9 had to be better. Trouble was, there was no V-9. Vinnie set about to create one.

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"Jesus, Vinnie!" Frankie sputtered between his coughing fits, "What the hell is in that? There's stuff in it!"

"Well, there's V-8, of course, and potato chips," Vinnie said.

"Potato chips? You can't put potato chips in juice." He propped himself against Vinnie's kitchen counter while his face dripped into the wastebasket.

"Sure you can. I just did. Everybody likes potato chips. Look, don't you love chocolate chips in your ice cream?"

"Aw, man, you're not gonna put chocolate chips in this shit too, are you?"

"Now that would be silly. I'm saying you like the mix, right? You got the melty stuff and you got the chewy stuff. Same thing here." He held up the bottle. It had plain white paper taped around it with "V-9" written on it with a permanent marker.

"You don't want chewy stuff in your juice, you crazy asshole. V-8 is juice, V-9's gotta be juice too."

"The "V" stands for "vegetable," not "juice." Otherwise it would be called J-8, wouldn't it? And potato chips is a vegetable."

"Potato chips are junk food. They're processed. With oil." Vinnie considered this a moment, then he jumped up.

"Not just oil, my friend! Vegetable oil! Do you understand what we've got here? It's V-10! That's two better!"

"Why stop there?" Frankie said. "Why not three or four better? It's not like anybody's gonna drink it."

"See this is why I come to you, Frankie. You're a freakin' genius."

Vinnie's up to V-163 now.

Don't drink it.

Inspiration: A stroll through the grocery store the other day gave me a few ideas. Sometimes you're just in the right frame of mind.

Double Duty

DOUBLE DUTY
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

My husband, George, had just gone to bed and the little grey kitten rubbed against my foot.

"You’re right," I said, "Even though you don’t know it. I should shower first." I picked up the kitten and unfolded her into a grey washcloth before she knew what was happening. After my shower, I let the washcloth fall to the floor and it collapsed back into the kitten. She was pissed. Soaking wet and having just had intimate knowledge of my every bit and piece, she bolted off to hide from her evil human mistress. Dogs don’t mind nearly as much as cats, but I’d never use Ruby as a washcloth. I needed her to dry off.

"C’mere, Ruby," I called. Ruby came, because she’s a dog. A beautiful golden retriever. "That’s a good girl, Ruby. I gave her a good head scratching before grabbing her front paws and stretching her out into a luxurious bath towel. I love it when the towel just comes from the dog. It’s so warm. I wrapped myself in the towel and found George still up, stark naked on the bed.

"Hows about a little lovin’ baby?" he said. I laughed.

"You must have read my mind," I said. I stood next to him and let my towel drop to the floor. Ruby shook herself off and walked circles at the foot of the bed. George wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me down on top of him.

"Gimmie some sugar," he said. I kissed him hard on the lips and grabbed his thingie. "Mmmmm," he said. My hand squirmed beneath his armpit and I snapped him firmly into a king-sized mattress pad.

I put on my pajamas and got a decent night’s sleep.

Inspiration: I just took a shower and looked at my grey washcloth. At the same time, an image of a curled up kitten popped into my head.

The Surge

THE SURGE
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

When the guy from USC said drinking piss gives you superpowers, well we knew he was full of shit. Another intellectual elitist – “Worse than that,” Bob said, “An elitist intellectual!” – Thanks, Bob, but anyway you get the picture, some bastard who got educated and goes on TV instead of working on new cell phone features like he’s supposed to.

When the President said that drinking piss gives you super powers, well, we had to admit she had a good point. We all drank piss. She’s the President and she has God on her side. She’s
practically the Pharaoh. Right away, people started speaking up and saying things like, “My friends and I have been drinking piss for years and we don’t have super powers.” We’d come right back at them and say, “You and your friends are all just a bunch of perverts and perverts don’t get powers. They don’t have the moral fortitude!”

When people started falling off of roofs and getting squashed by cars we knew where we had gone wrong. We weren’t drinking enough piss! Up to that point we’d been drinking our own, but really, what kind of sense does that make? We started in on each other’s, and by the way Bob, I think you need to drink more water. I don’t think it’s supposed to look like that.

No one was flying or super-speeding or anything. A lot of people pointed to their projectile vomiting as evidence of a bona fide power. “We weren’t doing that before we started drinking
piss!” they said. The disbelievers couldn’t argue with that logic. One lady even said her crocheting had improved. So there you go. The White House said we were almost there. They advised us to buy more beer. We did. Talk about a surge!

Those of us whose crocheting hadn’t improved went on all-piss diets. It looked like some people were dying from piss-poisoning, until the news said that the powers that be (and the executive and legislative branches were as one on this) explained that those people weren’t really dead, they just had acquired super-hibernation powers. That was too much for the other guys. They pointed to the article on page H17 of the Times with the headline: “MIT Study: Morons Drink Piss.” And added that this whole thing was a conspiracy set in motion by the breath mint cartel.

Ridiculous! I stood up on the table (there was a table, did I mention that?) And shouted: Intellectual elitists! I’m going to hibernate all over you!” I took a swig from my glass. Nothing happened. “All right, maybe not today. But soon. We’ll show you all!”

Inspiration: Honestly, I just thought it was time we had a good piss-drinking story out there. The political bullshit is what happens when I watch Bill Maher right before writing.

And Another Thing

You may have noticed that I noted the inspiration for The Angel Flies above the title. I’m going to go back through my posts little by little and mention the inspiration for each story, because the question every writer gets every time is: “Where do you get your ideas?” Well, look back at old posts over the coming weeks and I’ll tell you. I’ll probably mention them at the end of the story, because I don’t want to ruin anything.

This is a subject that I love. I love to learn about how the creative process works in other artists. My all-time favorite Beatles documentary was one on the making of each song on Sgt. Pepper. No, I don’t know the name of it. It may not even exist on DVD. Anyway, the glimpses I’ll give are tiny things, but maybe you’ll get something out of it and we’ll all be better people for it. All right, I know that’s not going to happen. I just wanted to end this thing on a pleasant note.

Ahhhh, That Feels Good!

So, I finally pulled myself out of this long non-writing funk after reading something some guy had posted on some website (how’s that for specificity?). It’s one of those things that you’ve known forever, but it’s not until someone reminds you of it that you put it to use once again.

As you may know (And may be sick of hearing), I had my first pro sale last April. The whole sophomore thing was hanging over my head and I wanted to follow it up quickly with a killer story or two to prove to myself that the sale hadn’t been luck, that I actually had a real skill for telling stories and maybe someday I could make a living at this. I wrote what I felt were two really good stories and they have been rejected and rejected and rejected some more. Needless to say, I felt like crap after about ten rejections between the two stories. No follow up there. More than that, I really busted my ass to make those stories good. Where could I go from there? And that’s where the freeze-up comes. What some people call writer’s block. It’s not that you can’t think of anything to write, it’s that you can’t think of anything good enough to write. And you are stuck like a Dodge Dart at the Mud Bog Spectacular.

That’s where this something something comes in (Okay, it’s here) and then I remember. If you want to write and you can’t, aim for crap. Don’t merely settle for crap, strive hard for crap. And the words will flow like your mind has swallowed a quart of castor oil (Now that’s some crap, my friend).

I have written today. More than a thousand words of brand new stuff and that is the best day I’ve had in weeks. Not coincidentally, I’m in the best mood I’ve been in for weeks, as you might expect.

I’m regular again.

The Angel Flies

This story was inspired by two photos on Flickr: Angel of the North and Smoke From a Rocket Launch.


THE ANGEL FLIES
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

When the Angel of the North uprooted itself and stretched its vast, rusty red and girded structure, the tourists didn't scream or run. They snapped shots with their phones and digicams. At worst, some cursed the light as dusk began to settle over the English highways. The people didn't fear it, they trusted it completely and they knew the angel moved for some higher purpose. Its now separated legs pounded the ground to tremors as it ran across the countryside and the angel lowered its torso to warp the wind around its aeroplane wings. The contrails of multiple rockets foamed the air and before anyone noticed, the angel's last foot had left the ground. It flew into the distant west, to right some unbearable wrong. The people stood silently, some within the open doors of their cars on the sides of the road. They had witnessed something that wasn't for the tabloids, wasn't for the BBC or any dry history book. They had witnessed something for themselves. Something that had changed them and would continue to change them for the rest of their long lives. Streaks of smokey icing smeared themselves across the sparse clouds in the darkening purple-orange sky. It would be dark before anyone headed for home.

An Open Letter To Both Of My Fans

AN OPEN LETTER TO BOTH OF MY FANS

I know what you're thinking: "He's missed three of the last seven days! What the fuck?" Here's the fuck:

Last week wore me down physically and I got whacked with three rejections on stories which I thought were all quite good. I've got to be in a decent mood to produce anything decent and right now, I'm teetering on depression. I'm stepping back and re-evaluating. So, I'm sorry to say, you're storyless for now. But don't be upset. For all any of us know, I good could get the best blow-job of my life tomorrow and write the greatest novel in the English language. So there's something to look forward to. I know I'm looking forward to it.

Today's Special

TODAY’S SPECIAL
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Bert just figured the waiter had a southern accent. He didn’t think anything of it when he ordered the daily special for Vera and himself. When the order hit the table . . . well, that was something else, wasn’t it?

“What the hell is this?” Bert asked. Vera sat speechless and wide-eyed.

“It’s today’s special, sir,” the waiter said. “Buffalo wangs.” In the center of the table, between the diet cokes and napkins, lay three gigantic, sauce-covered penises in a red plastic paper-lined basket.

“You’re kidding me! You can’t expect us to eat this!”

“I’ll try one,” Vera said. She popped one end of a big hot wang into her mouth and worked her jaws vigorously. “Chewy. But good.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Bert said.

“Why don’t you try one, sir?” the waiter said.

“Thanks, but no amount of celery and blue cheese dressing is going to make an enormous bovine cock go down easily. I’ll try the quesadillas.”

Bert found Vera’s enthusiasm for her wangs disconcerting. By the time his food arrived, she had polished off the entire basket.

“Jeez!” he said. “I wish you liked mine that much.”

“Yours doesn’t taste like that,” she said, rubbing her belly.

On the way home, they stopped at the corner store and Bert picked up a bottle of hot sauce.

Inspiration: Driving to work, I heard some DJ talking up a station promo and he mentioned buffalo wings, which, to my Northern-born ears, sounded a bit like wangs. And lo, a story was born.

THE I’M SO DESPERATE NOT TO MISS A DAY, I’LL POST ANY PIECE OF SHIT STORY

THE I’M SO DESPERATE NOT TO MISS A DAY, I’LL POST ANY PIECE OF SHIT STORY
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

“I have more sex appeal in my little finger than you have in your entire body,” Myrna said. Then she proved it by doing things to me that I never imagined could be done with a little finger. Or even a ring finger.

Inspiration: Not much to say here. I heard somebody use the painfully worn out little finger line and decided to make it slightly more interesting.

Stu Early

(Author's Note: This one goes out to Art)

STU EARLY
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Stu liked to get up early, get a jump on the day. The more he thought about it, the earlier he got up. He’d get up for work at eleven in the evening when work started at seven in the morning and yet still he got up earlier. Soon he was finishing Tuesday’s work on Monday. He got up earlier.

Stu found himself slowly going backwards through time as he awoke earlier and earlier from day to day. He compressed his twenty-four hour day into eighteen hours and ran into earlier editions of himself. Or maybe they were later editions. As he went further back in time these, copies started piling up until Stus outnumbered the rest of the human race and by the time of the ancient Sumerians, he was able to take over the world. He changed their names to the Stumerians and that was about the extent of his edicts. He didn’t really have time to issue more. He had to get up early the next day.

Inspiration: Hey, if you know Art, you know Stu, that's all I can say. If you call Art up right now, you'll find that he's getting ready for bed - for next Tuesday.

Eat Me

EAT ME
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Dirk’s esteem was at an all time low. When cannibals started moving into the neighborhood, he made a showy production about boarding up his windows and carrying a shotgun. But no one tried to break into his house, even before the fence went up. He’d cross the street whenever one of the neighbors came his way and he avoided the carpool, but to be honest they didn’t even look him over. After a year of shoddy treatment he left his front door wide open and sprinkled his head with Mrs. Dash. No one even tried to lick him.

“Is there something wrong with me?” he finally asked Marla, the girl next door/cannibal/neighborhood floozy.

“Watcha mean?” she asked.

“Do I smell bad? I mean, like I’ve . . . gone bad?”

She sniffed him and he felt a nervous thrill with her hard white teeth so close to him.

“Is that Secret?” she asked, pulling away. “Girls wear that.”

“Hey, it’s strong enough for a man! The ads said as much. Is that why you don’t want to eat me? Because of Secret?”

“Why would I want to eat you?” she asked.

“Because you’re a cannibal.”

“Well, someone thinks very highly of himself. Let me ask you something: Have you ever seen a cow? A real one, up close?”

“Yeah, once at my grandfather’s farm.”

“Did your mouth water? Did you want to eat it then and there?”

“No.”

“Exactly. On top of that, who the heck wants to go through all the trouble of skinning and cleaning you? When I want man-meat, I go to the store, just like anybody else.”

“You can’t buy people at the store!”

“You ever look through the deli? I mean, the entire deli?”

“No. I guess not. Look, thanks a lot. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“Oh, no problem. Listen, you want to come in for a drink?”

“Um, sure.”

They had Yoo-Hoos with vodka chasers for most of the afternoon. To Dirk’s surprise, when they were both too blitzed to see straight, Marla ate him.

I need one of those twist endings here, so I should specify: Not in the way you’re thinking. Of course, I don’t know what way you’re thinking, but it’s probably that other way. Do you know which way I’m talking about? Good.

Because I sure don’t.

Inspiration: I had just done gangbang and shit stories. I was trying to come up with another taboo. And I thought, what if everyone was a cannibal? Maybe I'd been influenced by my recent reading of I am Legend, in which everyone is a vampire. But what if everyone was a cannibal and no one wanted to eat you? Sure, you'd be relieved at first, but after a while, wouldn't you ask yourself, "Hey, what's wrong with me?"

No Gangbangs In Heaven

NO GANGBANGS IN HEAVEN
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Life sucked, yeah. But Claire had death to look forward to. Death was going to rock. After she bought it, Claire was going to get it on with John Wayne, Sean Connery and Mr. Spock for all
eternity. One heavenly gangbang with the three greatest studs the human race had ever produced.

It looked good on paper. But then Claire died. For a good long while the Duke had her all to himself and that was nice. Then Connery came up and he and Wayne fought over her endlessly
and the lovin’ dried up. Eventually Spock appeared but all that freak wanted to do was fondle her fingers. She grabbed his wang to give him a hint (he was half-human, after all) and he gave her some crap about sex after death being illogical.

“Hey, fuck your logic!” she said. She couldn’t tell but if he was fucking his logic, that was the only thing he was fucking. Connery rolled past her with a bloody nose. He drew his Walther
PPK and had it out for the ten-millionth time with the guy who brandished the Colt .45.

Death sucked too, yeah.

Inspiration: After nearly twenty years with my wife, I've learned what she likes. She may dig a muscle man here or there. But these three guys get her hotter than any of the young, sexy celebrities out there. Sure she's an oddball. That's why she's with me.

Squeezing One Out

SQUEEZING ONE OUT
By Matthew Sanborn Smith

You had to figure it’d be a New Yorker that came up with the idea. Joey didn’t have time for his wife’s goddamned pug to sniff everything and screw around in the park.

“C’mon! I got shit to do!” he shouted at the dog. “You been out here like three minutes now!”

More sniffing.

More rolling on her back joyfully.

Joey had had enough. He grabbed the little pig-dog, gave her belly a good hard squeeze and stuff came out the back end. He did a quick survey to make sure it was only the stuff that was supposed to come out. For the most part it was. Good. He didn’t need Gina giving him a hard time. He went back in with a strangely quiet little dog under his arm.

A good idea is a good idea. Joey told Dom about his new method and Dom told Deke and Deke told Ed and pretty soon guys all over the city were playing their dogs like bagpipes. The kids got into the act and soon made a game out of it.

“Jesus,” more than one tourist was overheard to have said. “When I was a kid we used water pistols.”

Inspiration: I told my wife I did this one day about a year ago when I came back inside with the dog. She thought it was disgusting. Since I'm a boy, it's my evolutionary imperative to gross girls out, so I was happy.

Like It?

Like It?

Hey, everybody, I appreciate you stopping by and hope you enjoy at least some of what you see here. Of course, everything here is free for your pleasure. The best payment you could give me is to spread the word, tell your friends and neighbors who aren't easily offended and subscribe to the blog. It would make me as happy as a freshly squeezed dog.