RuKsaK

You might want to read the kind of first part of this rubbish first, which is here.
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Nebbo had been designed from the cock backwards. He had this horrendously obnoxious piece of flesh between his leg which had a single eye view of his knee. From behind his cock, the rest of his body was calamitous. He was hairy in stripes, with a nose almost hiding his top lip, half-globe eyes and zig-zag, shoulder length hair.

This was wooden fact in the factory as every week he’d strip off and paint wearing only his boots. He never seemed naked because he wasn’t doing a naked thing, but the trunk dropping from him looked heavy and dangerous. A man with a cock like that could clearly kill people and that was where his offensive charm stemmed from.
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Lunch breaks were not much of a break really, just more chance for the factory to commit swift burglary of our time. Thirty minutes gone in a nasty, sharp gulp. More time murdered quietly. Of course, this lunch time was different.
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When I stood up in front of him I had to forget his cock. I split-second meditated it out of my mind with a cognitive jolt. Without that mass attached to his body I could face him:

‘What is your brain wearing today?’
‘Eh? Fucking sit down Ruk.’
I didn’t sit down and the idea of doing so seemed so ridiculous, not an inviting order like it should have been.

‘You shouldn’t have shit in his box Nebbo. That’s an evil transplant there.’
‘I didn’t shit in your box did I? Carry on like this and I will in your mother’s mouth though.’
He gave me the full image with that. A instantaneous flash of an photo shot into my head. It was Nebbo crouched, naked over my mother’s open, waiting mouth, and a brown log slowly curling from his anus.

‘You did shit in my box Nebbo. This place has shat in tons of boxes. I had a box, with a scruffy label on it. The label said ‘good manners’ – it’s hadn’t much in there, less since I started working here, and you just shat in that as well. I’ve got a box called ‘existence’ and every day that fucker fills with more shit from this place as well.’
‘What the fuck are you on?’

I could see from the edges of my view the other painters cringing from my imminent smack to the floor. Nebbo was about to deck me. I said the last with a tweak of his chin and the grin of films on my face:
‘Sit down flower.’

Anger gave that to me, this once. Nebbo sat down, his anger caving in to confusion, and nobody spoke or looked.
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I held out my sandwich box to the lad:
‘Do you like ham and mustard you shit box cunt?’

Some laughter, not much and wholly nervous, crawled onto the floor.
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I stopped working there about a month later. I went to work for HS Magnets, but that’s another story.

Sunday, March 13, 2005

Cock in a box