The Ballad Of Old Broken Face

​The clock strikes four in the afternoon and I’m in my whitey-tighties drunk after my twenty-somethingth shot of whatever I have left in the empty house. She’s a hop, skip, and dick away from being my girl again, and a taxi has been waiting outside of my window for the past five minutes or so, as if it is waiting for me. I pull on the closest clothes and stumble on into the yellow Ford Taurus.
​”Where to?” asks the cabbie.
​”To Johnson ‘The Stone’ Harmer’s house.” I answer.
​”Are you shitting me?” she asks.
​I am not shitting her.
​We pass all of these other mansions that look identical to the castle I must invade; all white and squared, as if architechs all decided to give up for the past one hundred years. I tell the cabbie all about my half-assed plan to defeat a Bowser of a man to save my princess. She tells me I’m a sexist for thinking the girl of my dreams is my property. I’m still too drunk to say anything back. She drops me off and gives me a slap on the ass for good luck.
​The big championship-winning boxer meets me at the door and I break down and sob all over his thick manly muscles. He doesn’t know what to do about this drunk and stinky sack of sadness on his famous front lawn. He is defenseless. I pop him one in the nose. I wake up in a hospital bed with the biggest smug smile on my miserably broken face.

– Philip James Sterwerf

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