New from Louffa Press ebooks. A scroll of collected flash fictions from Munter Jack, a gritty, laconic UK-based performer who also goes by the name The Fug. Offshore Navigation is a shark-toothed, lean, hungry-as-a-horse explication of the writer's dilemma in a world of loose dentures, fag ash, Special Brew and small animal disembowelment.
Offshore Navigation by Munter Jack
Ilonna pulls up on her Italian moped. She has a forty resting in her left hand, and she's lighting up a filtered cigarette in Nebraska. Ilonna shifts her candle-eyed gaze to everyone on the porch and says, At one point I had no clothes and there were eight girls trying to hump me, three on this leg and five on that leg. The dogs were trying to hump me from behind. Cocker Spaniels, Pugs, Poodles, even a weasel. A weasel with a tumor the size of a golf ball. Somebody tried to get me to pet the tumor. I'm not petting no goddamn weasel tumor. Eight girls on my leg and some guy whispers in my ear, Do the humpty hump, and pet the tumor. Then I was in the bathroom, and this couple was arguing. The guy was freaking out. He was some kind of straight guy, white t-shirt, baseball cap. The guy said, Why are all these people naked in your apartment? It's like I don't even know you. The girl was like, relaaaaaaax. These are my friends. That's what you call friends? he says, his nostrils flipping from left to right. I have to piss like a racehorse. Guys, I have to piss like a racehorse, I tell them. She looks at me and says, Go ahead. And they keep yelling at each other. The straight guy says, What kind of a person are you, letting people piss in here like that? My pants are around my ankles and I finish and I try to get up when the girl says, wait. Stay there. She looks at me hungrily and takes her pants off. She sits down on my leg. She starts to rubbing, looking into my eyes with a question. All the time they keep arguing. Your friends are perverts, he says. No they're not, she says, still rubbing on my leg. Really moving it. She looks even harder into me with the same question in her eyes and yells back at him: My friends are beautiful. Ten, twenty minutes they're yelling at each other, all the time she's moving against me, streaks of moisture rubbing on my thigh. She seems to find the answer to her question on my leg. You never did understand me, she screams, but she's looking at me, and she's quivering. I'm starting to sweat. You never let me be myself, she says, rubbing more and more intensely. The door comes open, and it's the weasel. He hops up on her thigh, rubbing the tumor against her side. She pulls up her pants, and stands up. It's like her boyfriend didn't even see it. Prince's song Raspberry Berret just finishes and it's completely silent. There's a long pause where the weasel looks guilty and the girl looks satisfied and I'm wondering if I'm still alive. I'm sorry you guys are having relationship problems, I tell them. But can I put my pants back on now? Ilonna takes the cigarette from her mouth and flicks a three inch ash on the porch.