Not Andersen Prunty

Foot in Ass

Walter calls and says he had a dream I stuck my whole foot in his ass and now he can’t stop thinking about it. Walter and I do not have this kind of relationship.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.

“My therapist tells me I need to be more honest,” he says.

I let this hang there, listen to him take a drink of something, take a hit from what is probably some kind of vape.

“Well?” he says.

“Well what?”

“You want to?”

“Want to what?”

“You know.”

“I don’t even know where you are these days.”

“I’ll pay for everything,” he says.

The next day, I’m getting out of a car in a squalid section of Copenhagen. I go to the address he gave me and knock on a warped door once painted green but now mostly raw gray wood. Walter opens the door, as breezy and affable as always.

“Why Copenhagen?” I ask

“It’s on the map,” he says.

“Where do you want to do this?”

“The other room. I’m all set up. I have a big bucket of soapy water. For after.”

We go into the room. Other than the bucket of soapy water, a tarp on the floor, and a camera on a tripod, the room is bare.

“A camera?” I say.

“I want to record my dreams.”

“A re-enactment.”

“We’ll see. Better take off that shoe.”

“Which one?”

“Let me think.”

He closes his eyes, trying to remember his dream.

“The left one,” he says.

I roll up my pants leg and remove my shoe and sock. By the time I’m finished, he’s already naked from the waist down, on all fours.

“This is exactly how it was,” he says.

“Should I …?”

“Nope. No lube.”

“I don’t know how this will be possible.”

“We have to try.”

His cheeks are spread. His asshole seems devastated. A shiver runs through me.

“I …”

“Please don’t talk,” he says.

I try to ball my foot the way you’d ball your hand into a fist. I press the big toe against his caulifloured anus. Miraculously, my foot is absorbed into him. I look down at his face. He’s smiling beatifically. My foot is enclosed with a moist heat that spreads up my leg, into my pelvis, up my torso, and all the way to my brain. Things get fuzzy. Walter’s still smiling. I lose all sense of self. I’m in Walter’s dream. The room is spinning around me, colors pulsing and vibrating. I’ve never felt anything like it. I don’t know how long we stay like this. It feels like I’m hearing his thoughts.

“How long are we going to do this?” I think.

“Until we wake up,” he thinks back.

May 26, 2023

absurdist fiction, andersen prunty, butt stuff, dreams
Crimes

Armrest darts into the bathroom. The shower runs. It always runs. He rips his clothes off and flings himself into the shower. The water is scalding hot. Vigorously, quickly, he scrubs his entire body. Fewer than two minutes later he emerges from the shower, red and steaming. Wrapping a thick robe around his body, he goes downstairs. He opens the door to his library. Inside, a dust storm rages. Swirling, dark and foreboding, it threatens to spill out and infect the rest of the house’s sterility. With a brief cry of alarm, Armrest slams the door, charges over to the couch and sits. Hopping up and down, he beats his hands against his thighs and chants, “Unclean. Unclean. Unclean! UNCLEAN!” Already, he has worked up a sweat and can feel the particles of the dust storm rubbing against his fingertips. He has to go take another shower. The front door flies open and an army of twelve men, all wearing black sweatsuits and bright red running shoes, pulls him from the couch and out into the street.

“Filth! Filth!” they shout in unison. One man (they all look the same, have the same bland and smiling face) brandishes a bucket of tar at Armrest.

“No!” Armrest shouts.

“Yes!” the twelve men cry in unison.

They strip him from his robe and coat him in the warm tar. Another man exposes a pillow he has hidden behind his back. He rips open the pillow and showers Armrest in the feathers. Armrest doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know the meaning of this. The men all strip off their sweatshirts and tie them around their waists. They stand in a half- circle. One man toward the middle pulls out a pack of cigarettes and passes it around. Armrest creeps away from the men. They make no attempt to catch him.

Armrest watches the men from the front door, standing around smoking and laughing. He wants to go up and take a shower. The tar is hardening on him, the feathers becoming mired in its solidity. Armrest likes the feeling. It becomes like a suit of armor. Brazenly, he throws open the door to his library. The dust storm swarms him but he can’t feel it, the granules unable to penetrate the thick layer of tar. Armrest pulls a book filled with gibberish and lacking a title or an author from a shelf. He sits in his chair by the front window and looks out at the circle of smoking men. They are now taking turns punching each other in the face. Armrest flips open the book and begins to read, knowing, one day, he’ll have to shower again. He wonders how many showers it will take to remove all the tar and feathers and dust and realizes he doesn’t care.

May 19, 2023

absurdist fiction, andersen prunty, crimes, existential dread, free stories
Sad Friends

One day, all my friends come over to cry.

I have a couch, two chairs, a television, and a case of beer in the refrigerator. The cheap stuff.

My house is small, but they all live in apartments. Except for Carl. Carl sleeps in his car and spends the day at the library.

Jerry’s the first person to show up. He’s a few minutes early. His knock is soft. He’s a quiet, shy kind of person. I normally call him Jer-Bear but he seems too serious tonight. I pat him on a narrow shoulder and say, “Come in, man. Have a seat. Want a beer?”

“Nah,” he says. “I’m not drinking.” This makes it sound like he’s had a problem with it in the past.

Jerry sits delicately on the couch and buries his face in his hands.

I stand by the door and occasionally glance out the window.

Carl pulls up and lumbers out of his car.

I surprise him by opening the door before he can knock.

He’s already crying.

Don is the next one to arrive. I’m in the kitchen getting beer for Carl and myself so Jerry lets him in.

“Wanna beer?” I call to Don.

“Sure. I guess,” he says.

I bring the three beers into the living room. It’s challenging.

Don stands beside the door, his shoulders slumped.

“I brought chips,” he says.

The bag is clutched in his hand, dangling down by his knees. It’s a brand I’ve never heard of before.

“Thanks, man. Sit wherever.”

He sits heavily in the chair closest to the door.

“I passed Katrina on the way,” he says. “She had to stop to tie her shoes.”

I look out the window in the door to see Katrina climb the steps to the porch.

For some reason, I don’t open the door. Maybe I don’t want to startle her. Maybe I want to watch her face as she knocks.

She knocks twice, slowly.

I open the door.

“Katrina,” I say.

“Yes,” she says.

“Wanna beer?”

“Yes, please. And some water.”

I go into the kitchen and get her beer out of the refrigerator. Getting the water is slightly confusing and more difficult than I would have thought.

By the time I get back into the living room, everyone is crying. Don has opened his bag of chips and started eating them. There are some crumbs on his thick lips. Katrina has taken the other chair, so I sit on the couch.

We all weep openly, some of us more dramatically than others. Occasionally one of the guys will stop crying to leer at Katrina, me included.

I turn the television on. Two fully clothed teenagers are on a couch making out while an older man sits in a simple wooden chair and takes notes.

I don’t change the channel.

A couple hours later, Don stands up and says, “Too heavy.”

He moves to the middle of the room and starts clapping. He jerks his body around and shouts “Whoo!” like he’s having a big time. But his movements are too forced and vicious and the whole thing is more terrifying than anything.

Katrina says she feels nervous and leaves.

We spend the rest of the evening drinking beers, passing Don’s bag of chips around, and watching the television, the show never changing.

Don is the next to leave, followed shortly thereafter by Jerry.

Carl asks if I’d mind if he slept on the couch.

I do mind but tell him it’s okay, as long as he’s gone before I leave for work the next morning.

Before I go to bed, I look out my bedroom window.

The neighborhood is dark and quiet.

There isn’t a car on the road.

May 12, 2023

absurd stories, andersen prunty, free fiction
Office Party

I’d forgotten all about it until I see the text from Robin:

office party

No exclamation point. No emoji. Not even a period. Absolutely no caps.

I load my car up with trashy girls from the neighborhood. The car is immediately filled with the scent of bubblegum, mint schnapps, cheap perfume, weed and cigarette smoke. Also, it smells like one of them ritualistically lets her cat urinate on her.

“Where are you taking us?” they ask.

“The office party,” I say.

They think this is hilarious. They spend the entire ride to the office making fun of me. I think about kicking them out but what kind of entrance could I make without them?

A few minutes later we get to the office. It’s in a strip mall on the outskirts of a suburb. All the lights are on and the parking lot is full so I have to park on the street. One of the girls has passed out so we leave her in the car.

“She has a condition,” one of the girls says and I think that condition is probably being drunk.

I swipe my fob to unlock the door to the office and hold it open for the girls. They charge through the doorway and immediately go wild, running inside, laughing and screaming before disappearing into the part of the office no one ever goes. It’s dark back there and not safe.

Raucous sounds are coming from the breakroom. I’m not ready to go in yet.

Pete is standing next to the restrooms, holding a mixed drink and looking disheveled.

“Hi Pete,” I say.

He says, “I’ve sexually harassed almost everyone here tonight.”

“Office party,” I say.

He uses his free hand to reach out and gently grope my chest.

“Consider yourself harassed,” he says.

I think about fighting him but know I’ll need to save my energy. Besides, Pete has some pretty serious problems at home.

“Have you seen Robin?” I ask.

“She blacked out and went home,” he says.

“I think I’m going to go into the breakroom,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s where almost everyone is.”

I go into the breakroom and Missie hands me a plastic cup of beer and I drink it quickly. Music is blaring from somewhere and there are way too many people crammed into a breakroom that only has a couple of tables and a few chairs. All the people are trying to act like they are not old and gross. The boss is wandering around in his weekend clothes and something he calls his “blow hat.” It’s really just an upside down cone filled with cocaine and a tube he occasionally inserts into his nostril. He offers it to any takers, of which there are many.

“You like Kenny Loggins!” he shouts over the music.

“I don’t think I’ve met him yet,” I say, feeling claustrophobic.

I notice Paul lying on the floor.

“Good lord, what has happened to Paul?” I don’t even know if I’m talking out loud.

Disco Linda says, “Paul ate all the food in the refrigerator. I think he’s bad sick.”

Charlotte starts a small fire, maybe around the microwave, and nearly everyone files back into the office, drinks in hand. We leave Paul behind. No one knows him very well.

Ben wheels the keg out on a dolly. Lori’s carrying all the bottles of liquor.

I try to relax and have a good time but I feel preoccupied. I make small talk with several people who I haven’t talked to in weeks. The fire alarm starts and the boss flips out, trying to figure out how to shut it off. No one has put out the fire. The alarm continues to blare so someone turns the music up louder.

Johnny, the office toddler, is drunk and belligerent and challenges me to a fight with as many words as he knows, which isn’t a lot. I’m not really sure how he works in customer service. This has been escalating for nearly a year and is exactly why I had to conserve my energy.

I follow him outside and give him a swift beating before tossing him in the dumpster. He’ll make his way out eventually. He always does. Even with those little arms and legs.

Around midnight, Missie breaks her belly out and we all have a feel. It’s like a meteorite covered with a marshmallow covered by Silly Putty if Silly Putty could sweat.

Pete has now gone full thunderdrunk and alternates between dancing, falling down, spilling drinks, and having shouted conversations with people that mostly include him making fun of them.

I drink several more beers and try to go to the bathroom but there’s a sign on the door that says “No Laughter in the Tear Zone” and I imagine it’s just full of sad people having breakdowns. I like to keep my breakdowns private and decide it’s time to go.

I venture to the shadowy perimeter leading to the back of the office, afraid to go any farther, and listen for the sounds of the girls.

I don’t like to shout so I just stand there clapping my hands. There’s a commotion behind me but it’s just the breakroom door melting and buckling inward.

Eventually the girls emerge from the shadows. I think they’re the same ones I came with. I don’t know.

We head out into the parking lot and the ugliest one tells me she thinks she’s pregnant so I take them to an abortion clinic and drop them out front.

“It’s not open yet, so you’ll have to wait,” I say.

As I pull away, they throw rocks at my car. I drive home really fast, weaving through the quiet suburb. Once home, I’m not ready for the party to end so I stay on the front porch and drink several more beers and start feeling pretty alone until the sky lightens just a little and all the birds come out to make noise and I run around the yard shouting “Whooo!” and now it feels like I’m having a really good time.

May 5, 2023

absurdist fiction, andersen prunty, free stories, office parties

Foot in Ass

Crimes

Sad Friends

Office Party