Eddie and the Imp

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
Hey, all ya'll! Read this smuttlet!

Submitted: May 13, 2017

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Submitted: May 13, 2017



Eddie is an idiot; a big, fat, smelly idiot.  He is the sort of idiot who sets his drink on the arm of his crappy sofa and is amazed every time it spills.  Just yesterday, he was reminded by an old dude driving one of those new Jaguar’s that smoking while pumping gas is idiotic.  A month ago, he upped his idiot-game and won a prize.

He had just finished watching a derivative Ouija board movie (it might have been titled, Ouija Part 7, Who Still Gives a Shit?) and remembered that he owned one.  Years earlier he sprang for a deluxe, Hellboy Talking Board to go with his sad collection of comic book doo dads.  He knew that real Ouija boards came in exactly two varieties:  Dusty ones found in the attic of houses where an occult murder took place, and the ones made by Hasbro who bought the exclusive rights to hell-portals back in the 90’s.  His board was just a collectible, so he figured there was no harm dicking around with it.  He doesn’t even realize that’s where his problems started.

Though there are a bewildering number of demon types, the simplest way to classify them is to separate them into the discrete categories of those who prefer Cocoa Krispies, which spit in your eye, and those who prefer Cap’n Crunch, which shreds your mouth.  The ones that get all the attention by turning people into Linda Blair are committed Crunchers.  They have impressive names like, “Legion” and “Belphegor,” and are always gunning for a water-fight with Father Merrin.  Contrary to what the Crunchers say, the Krispies could possess people, but they choose not to.  They prefer the more delicate and sophisticated career-path of being assholes.

Eddie the idiot got himself a Krispy with the sensible, nothing whatsoever wrong with it, name of Dyl. Unlike other demons, Dyl was dashing and handsome.  He invented guys wearing eyeliner, that swoopy, emo hair thing, and the color black.  He also put mouthwash in Eddie’s orange juice and laughed like a motherfucker at the expression on his face when he swallowed it.  That gem was just the beginning.

When Eddie got home from work, he found his tiny sausage of a dog flopping around in the toilet.  What?  How did the little yappy turd get there, and why couldn’t he heave his little pug-self out instead of splashing around like some retard in the precision swimming competition of the special Olympics?  Eddie had no idea, but it didn’t stop him from letting the sopping wet thing slather toilet and dog germs all over his mouth when he fished it out.

Krispies do have rules.  Demons always have stupid, self-imposed rules.  Belphegor must leave if Father Merrin, Dr. Zaffis, or those cunts, Ed (dead) and Lorraine Warren call them by their names.  Krispy rules are more lax:  Krispies have exactly one lunar cycle and a maximum of one what-the-fuck? a day.  Fuck-thises, and fuck-that’s are generally open to interpretation that err on the side of the Krispy.

As it happened, somewhere between the new Star Wars movie appearing On Demand and Guardians of the Galaxy 2 at theaters, Eddie snagged himself a girl! She was so hot by his standards.  Her tits were almost as large as the folds on her back-fat, and she had her own set of pearlescent, Chessex gaming dice! Eddie loved those dice!  Their first game of Call of Cthulhu, with Eddie’s loser friends, saw him gripped in madness, and her leading the party as the original, archeologist, Dr. Lana Croft.

That sad, sad girl’s name was Heather, and she seemed to love Eddie’s sagging, Nixon-jowls, so much so that she agreed to follow him to the IHOP after a game where he rolled ones and she rolled twenties to “discuss her character.” Like the truest of Shakespearean lovers, they agreed that The Hobbit movies, by that Jackson guy, sucked, and found common ground with Eddie’s conspiracy theory that Debra Hill was the genius behind John Carpenter’s films.

It was sickening, but the shit of their budding relationship flowed, notwithstanding. As days passed, Eddie found his printer’s USB unplugged, malware on his MacBook, and the pooch had taken to swimming in the crapper like a champ.  On a morning, when his newly bought milk curdled, he manned-up and invited Heather to a homemade dinner at his place.  She accepted, and he dreamed of little Eddies segregating their dice by type and color and asking about “to hit armor-class zero.”

Bulbous Heather arrived promptly an hour before she was invited.  Idiot Eddie invited her in and offered her a proper tour of his virginal apartment as the noodles boiled.  After his long-winded explanation of his Generation One Transformers, and a weepy digression into the fate of Hound, a Jeep who died at the hands of the Deceptions in the 1986 movie progressed, they moved to his bedroom.

Under any other circumstance, something might have happened amid the movie posters and stacks of Elfquest comics.  Heather was so easy, and Eddie had always imagined this moment to be his “move.”  But the first thing Heather saw was an enormous bottle of Jergens Ultra-Healing hand lotion beside Eddie’s desktop computer.

No sooner had she asked about it then Eddie’s HP Pavilion All-In-One computer sprung to life in an epic video of some fat whore being drilled by an equally fat guy.  They humped like champions, fat rolls against fat rolls.  There were so many fat rolls, that it was hardly pornographic: No one could actually see Tab A going into Slot B amid all the rubbing cellulite.  It looked like two walruses wrestling, but the grunting and mooing of the pair made it clear that a shlong was finding its way into a flange!

Heather, who graduated from Christian school just a year earlier, and took to table-top gaming because she thought it made her more interesting, ran out of the apartment sobbing.  Eddie, sullenly, turned off the stove not bothering to chase her.

There are exactly twenty-two days before the lunar cycle ends.

Eddie loves low-rent sites where unpublishable spooge-stains share their adverb-rich stories with other people who think their associate at (insert-retail-here) position is just until they are discovered.  He just published a clinker which he is proud of on this very site!

I can’t wait until he reads this!


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