24/10: Servile Servitude
Posted by: Captain Forehead
“Great job trimming those trees. Would you like a job this evening?”
“Sure.”
He could not turn down the work. He needed cash, and it had to be cash because everything attached to his social security number was attached. There was no way out of the financial morass except for cash, and he had not yet figured out how to get large quantities of cash quickly.
“Do you have a suit, some nice clothes?”
“No. I have what I’m wearing. Everything is at my house, and I can’t…”
“Yeah, whatever. I’ve got something you can wear. I’m in a tight spot. I need help. I need a waiter, I’ve got a catering job tonight and I need a waiter.”
Looking the man up and down, the shell of a fighter knew the man’s clothing would be a bit short, but he was never too concerned about appearance. Cash was cash, and need was now.
“I can wait.”
“Good. Come in, take a shower and I’ll get you some clothes.”
It was relaxing and refreshing for the quiet ex of Captain to feel the warm water run over the thin skin masquerading as flesh of substance. It was so pleasant, the shower lasted until the hot water was spent.
He exited the shower, patted himself dry with a hand towel and walked — holding only the hand towel — into the hallway to find the promised clothes.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!!!!! Dad! Dad! Naked guy!! Daaaaad!”
Instinctively, the man who once was turned and looked, but there was no one of suspicion.
“Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Here, put on these clothes,” the employer offered.
“Thank you.”
After dressing, he who was stood in front of a mirror. The clothes were too short, but they were clean, untattered. What had happened to the raging current of juicy justice that had been Captain, that had made this man a man of purpose? And where was the emaciated nothingness hidden under another man’s undergarments headed? Tears began to well, but the lost lover of lasting likeability swallowed hard, crushing the tears of weakness.
Late into the evening of serving subtext, the one who once was watched, nearly coming to the full of life, pulsing with purpose as he watched the evil of excess parade. Perhaps there was purpose to his happenstance placement.
Drinks were served. The words of good hiding evil began to deteriorate, as the noise, energy and aggression began to intensify. Out of the corner of his heavy eyes, the former noticed a young man circling a much younger beauty of innocence. Without thought, the pulsing of purpose began to purge the purposelessness from his body, and a vibrant flesh flashed and began to thicken. The eyes sharpened and watched.
Before long, the inebriated inbred birdbrain was thrusting himself upon the young beauty of virtue. The skin of who was thickened, body glowing with purpose. Balancing a tray of wine glasses, he made his way toward evil revealing. The taut fawn having pushed away the imbibed once, he forced a stumbled approach of demand as strengthening skeleton positioned. She shoved the drunkard hard. He stumbled back into the waiter waiting for purpose, causing him to drop the tray of wine glass in a moment silencing crash.
“Be careful, Waiter,” the pale drunkard demanded in tone of distain.
He who once was took note; stared intensely into the face and remembered the eyes of evil, adding to the database of destiny buried deep in the dark recesses of a closed catastrophe of consciousness. He said nothing.
“Don’t look at me like that, you’re a fuckin’ waiter! Get me a drink and clean up this mess.”
Yes, a waiter, waiting for his purpose, pondering his promise. Tonight, it was simple to serve and spill a tray of wine — and to see a lovely young luxurious lass of lasting goodness stand for what is rightly hers: her.
“Sure.”
He could not turn down the work. He needed cash, and it had to be cash because everything attached to his social security number was attached. There was no way out of the financial morass except for cash, and he had not yet figured out how to get large quantities of cash quickly.
“Do you have a suit, some nice clothes?”
“No. I have what I’m wearing. Everything is at my house, and I can’t…”
“Yeah, whatever. I’ve got something you can wear. I’m in a tight spot. I need help. I need a waiter, I’ve got a catering job tonight and I need a waiter.”
Looking the man up and down, the shell of a fighter knew the man’s clothing would be a bit short, but he was never too concerned about appearance. Cash was cash, and need was now.
“I can wait.”
“Good. Come in, take a shower and I’ll get you some clothes.”
It was relaxing and refreshing for the quiet ex of Captain to feel the warm water run over the thin skin masquerading as flesh of substance. It was so pleasant, the shower lasted until the hot water was spent.
He exited the shower, patted himself dry with a hand towel and walked — holding only the hand towel — into the hallway to find the promised clothes.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!!!!! Dad! Dad! Naked guy!! Daaaaad!”
Instinctively, the man who once was turned and looked, but there was no one of suspicion.
“Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Here, put on these clothes,” the employer offered.
“Thank you.”
After dressing, he who was stood in front of a mirror. The clothes were too short, but they were clean, untattered. What had happened to the raging current of juicy justice that had been Captain, that had made this man a man of purpose? And where was the emaciated nothingness hidden under another man’s undergarments headed? Tears began to well, but the lost lover of lasting likeability swallowed hard, crushing the tears of weakness.
Late into the evening of serving subtext, the one who once was watched, nearly coming to the full of life, pulsing with purpose as he watched the evil of excess parade. Perhaps there was purpose to his happenstance placement.
Drinks were served. The words of good hiding evil began to deteriorate, as the noise, energy and aggression began to intensify. Out of the corner of his heavy eyes, the former noticed a young man circling a much younger beauty of innocence. Without thought, the pulsing of purpose began to purge the purposelessness from his body, and a vibrant flesh flashed and began to thicken. The eyes sharpened and watched.
Before long, the inebriated inbred birdbrain was thrusting himself upon the young beauty of virtue. The skin of who was thickened, body glowing with purpose. Balancing a tray of wine glasses, he made his way toward evil revealing. The taut fawn having pushed away the imbibed once, he forced a stumbled approach of demand as strengthening skeleton positioned. She shoved the drunkard hard. He stumbled back into the waiter waiting for purpose, causing him to drop the tray of wine glass in a moment silencing crash.
“Be careful, Waiter,” the pale drunkard demanded in tone of distain.
He who once was took note; stared intensely into the face and remembered the eyes of evil, adding to the database of destiny buried deep in the dark recesses of a closed catastrophe of consciousness. He said nothing.
“Don’t look at me like that, you’re a fuckin’ waiter! Get me a drink and clean up this mess.”
Yes, a waiter, waiting for his purpose, pondering his promise. Tonight, it was simple to serve and spill a tray of wine — and to see a lovely young luxurious lass of lasting goodness stand for what is rightly hers: her.
Mr.Twister wrote: