This Guy wants to write a movie called “The Man Who Ripped His Dick Off”, but he might call it “Dickless” or something else, he doesn’t know. It’s like three o’clock in the afternoon and he’s sitting on his porch writing lines like “Oh my god, what happened to your penis?” in his spiral notebook. He goes inside to fill his plastic mug with sweet tea. Screen door bangs three times. His wife’s in the kitchen and she says “What’re you doing out there?” and he’s like “Working on my movie.” and she says “Neat.” and he reads her a line and she smiles, strand of celery between her teeth revealed to This Guy while she does so. And he walks toward the fridge.
Outside now, there’s a man peering over This Guy’s and This Guy’s Wife’s backyard. He thinks “I don’t see a dog. Cool. Totally gonna hide under the trampoline.” and vaults himself over the fence, catching his left pant leg, falling face-first into trampoline’s unpadded frame. “Fucking hurts. ‘Sposed to have pads on those, they’re usually blue.” and crawls, bleeding under the trampoline, covers himself in leaves.
AND THEN SOME OTHER SHIT HAPPENED AND THE STORY ENDED
