Statham

Let’s try another one.

Turds. Dog turds. I’m standing in a pile of dog turds. Fuck, now my shoes are ruined. And man, it stinks like no pile of dog turds has stunk before it. Maybe I should get out of here. Yeah, that’s probably a good idea. I try to lift up my left foot but it won’t budge. It sticks to the turd. Damn you Geox shoes, with your breathing soles and your fancy commercials between Simpsons episodes, damn you. I try moving my right foot, no result. I figure that from a distance it must look like I’m performing some sort of rain dance. Well, let’s hope it won’t start raining because this pile of dung will start smelling like your mother even more. That’s right, your mother smells, I said it.

Now to get out of this mess. Seems I’ll have to try and use my Batangas knife, see if I can cut the crap of my shoes. The shit had better come off my knife, or I swear to God I’ll track down the dogs who did this and I’ll slice ‘em in half. Fuck castration, just cut the whole dog, problem solved. I reach down to see if the knife can do anything to help. And I thought this pile smelled bad from higher up, down here it just smells like your mother washed herself with an even dirtier mother. The horror, the horror. I twist the knife around my right foot and manage to cut it loose after a few seconds. One down, one to go. Fuck, where do I put my right foot down? There’s shit everywhere. Dung all over the place. Turds as far as the eye can see. Oh no, wait a minute, the pile ends a couple of feet over there, good.

With my left foot still down in brown country and my right foot a couple of feet away I find myself in a pretty uncomfortable position as far as my family jewels are concerned. If my feet move away from each other even more, my balls will be ripped apart. Each of them would probably go their own way after that, following their dreams, visiting some whores or whatever balls do these days. I hope I don’t fall down standing like this, ’cause that would mean both my shoes and my tuxedo would be ruined. Can’t have that, now, can we? So in a state of utmost concentration, protect the balls and the tux, I reach down, quite the painful experience, and use my knife to cut the other foot loose. Finally my left foot manages to escape the Army of the Turds, unfortunately I lose my balance. With a roaring yell I fall on my back. People watching me from a distance must think I’m doing a poor dancing job, even after a bone-chillingly powerful scream like that it’s still not raining.

Fuck, my back hurts. And both my shoes and my knife are covered with filth. Damn you Lassie. I manage to clean the knife with my handkerchief, then throw it away of course, but I can’t go running around in filthy shoes like these. It’s pretty calm around here. Time for the old shoe swap. I go over to a bench a couple of feet away and sit down. Now we play the waiting game. After two minutes a man walks by. No, those aren’t classy enough. A few seconds later a woman passes the bench. I can’t take shoes from a woman, that’s just plain wrong.

Eight minutes pass. I’m gonna be late. A guy shows up. He looks well-dressed. I look down at his shoes. Oh my, he is well-dressed, these shoes will do. I get up and block the path. ‘Ehm, can I help you?’ I pull out my silenced Beretta. ‘Hi, I need your shoes.’ I’m in a hurry, no time for idle conversation. If he goes ‘What?’ I’ll have to –’I'm sorry, what?’ A short popping sound, the sound of a man falling down on the ground and the sound of one man untying another man’s shoelaces. Ah, these shoes fit like a glove. Now, time to move on.

Heh. See you shortly.

I’m off to Wacken Open Air, so no updates until next week.

Metal up your ass!