Rats, Roaches, and Death Ants

 by Thom Young

There are three things in my place. Rats, Roaches, and Death Ants. They come out at night. They take shits in my shower. They laugh when I'm not home. They live in old pizza boxes. They lick cum off my sheets. They get in my girl's hair. The rats try and eat my Honeycomb. The rats are big and not small. The roaches are bigger than the rats. They live in the cracks of walls and lives. They shit on my toothbrush. They wait until I take a shit, then eat the turds. The ants sting like motherfuckers. They love sugar. They hide in old pairs of underwear. They love sweat. The roaches, rats, and ants like fucking up my world. It brings them happiness. I can't reason with them because they hate it. I locked the rats in the attic. The roaches hit the caps lock when I write. I hate them all. I fucked this bitch last night. The rats ate her pussy. I went to piss. The roaches took over. They licked her clit. The ants gave her a finger bang. They are all disgusting like me.

Thom Young is a writer from Texas. His work has been in 3am magazine, Word Riot, Thieves Jargon, The Legendary, and many other sundry places.
His favorite word in the English language is penchant, for example "He had a real penchant for lady-boys."

The Writer

by Thom Young

The extra large stained tee shirt hung on his gut. It was too small. His shirt and not his gut. It hung on the stretchy boxer shorts, that came with a drawstring. The bags of Zapps jalapeno chips lay strewn on the floor, along with copious amounts of Rolling Rock beer bottles. Their green hue capturing what little sunlight darted through the torn shades. The ashtray sat to his right. It was filled with smoked American Spirit cigarettes, most still good for another light later on. His writing table was nothing more than the cheap folding variety, bought at the local Office Depot.

Last summer, he finally replaced his computer. The old one was infested with trojans and blaster worms, no doubt from too much porn viewing and years of abuse. This was the environment of the important writer. He needed silence and time for ideas. The creative act being too important for needling neighbors and barking dogs. It was always the dogs. Nasty little pests. Mexican pests at that. The children were far worse however, they took away from his art. The little running shits. They yelled all day. They never shut up. How could he get the words down?


The chair was one from his old classroom. It was a blue plastic industrial chair. His ass hung off the sides of it, looking for extra room. It wasn’t comfortable. Fuck comfort. Comfort was for the safe writers. A little discomfort led to better stories and poems, at least in his mind. His girlfriend came in on the weekends.


She kept him going with intermittent blow jobs. It kept the words coming. She had big breasts. Her fiery red hair smelled like Pantene and cum.

“How’s the story?”

“Not now baby. I’m busy.”

“Okay.”

She was good to him. More than he deserved. All writers were assholes. All people were assholes. Even the son of god. He had bad days too.


The writer set his cigar down. He wasn’t pleased with what he typed. “Get me a beer!” She came running with a fresh bottle. I guess some things were still alright. It wasn't easy being an artist.

Thom Young is a writer from Texas. His work has appeared in 3am magazine, Word Riot, Thieves Jargon, and many other sundry places. He is proud that he got out of bed yesterday.

Relapse

by Thom Young

“Split this down the middle. I take twenty percent of the house. Rules of the game. After that, wipe out the shitters and place new urinal cakes in the men’s john. Watch for bloody cunt rags in the ladies crapper.”

This was the first night of my new job in building six. My boss was an old fuck. He had worked his way up from pushing a broom to head janitor. It was a big title job. He covered two office buildings including mine. I saw him walk down the stairs and heard the door shut. It was just me now. The incessant hum of the new cooling unit sang. I lit up a cigarette and tossed my cleaning bucket in the trash. I walked up the nearest fire escape and climbed on top of the building. The city was quiet except for the lone street bums wandering aimlessly to nowhere. I exhaled and noticed something peculiar. Across the street, in office building seven a light shone from the second floor.

I strained my neck for a closer look to what appeared to be a naked woman. It must be a shadow I thought, but upon closer inspection she appeared to be on her knees performing fellatio. Lucky bastard. I put out my cigarette and slowly climbed down the stairs until I made it. I crossed the street and tried the front door. It was locked. I walked around back and tried the back door. It was open. I took the stairs to the second floor, trying to remember where I saw her. I noticed the office looked just like the one I had left. I took a left down a main hallway, and then I heard it. Moans of pleasure coming from a few doors down.

I unzipped my pants and placed my hand on my cock. The moans grew louder and more vigorous. I got excited. I approached the door. I stood just to the side and listened. “Suck it you bitch! Drain my balls! You bitch!” This guy knew how to tell her off. The filthy whore. I started to climax but didn’t.

I zipped up my pants. I turned and looked into the door. The old fuck was standing with his pants around knees. The Hoover vacuum hose attached to his penis. His eyes got big as he hurried to pull up his pants. I laughed and saw the red rise up his face.

I didn’t have a job after that. I walked back down the hallway and into the night. The madness of the employed and the job. It was a good night. The End.

Thom Young is a writer from Texas. His work has been in Word Riot, Thieves Jargon, The Legendary, The Delinquent, and many other sundry places.
SSFUCK: If you could talk to any inanimate object, which would you choose?
Thom: My left hand as it is always numb.