Willie Smith


          Thousandleggers infest the house. Inhabit the cabinet. Straddle the pipes. Procreate in spigots. Become bewildered in the sink. Abandoned in the tub. Panicky under the Whirlpool.
          In reality – a state above Virginia – they sport a mere forty appendages, and are more scared of you than the reverse.
          They glisten, sprinting linoleum under fluorescents. Exquisitely-timed legs patter – soft as drizzle – the patience of God, the humility of Christ, the shame of the Virgin outliving her child.
          Pity the thousandlegger doomed to crowd your house with countless copies. To wriggle feelers in the crannies. Encounter nooky in the nooks. Hide under the counter from these mammoth vampires called ourselves.
          Who is the more disgusted – God with Satan, or Satan with Injustice?
          So when circumstances next dictate you masturbate, remember, as you fondle, the forty-some members of this misnomer now paused on the cuttingboard….
          Slice knife...
          Touché – electrified moustaches!
          Then beg forgiveness not from above, but from this milli-fairy who even cut in half cavorts smiling through the mess.
          Half a priest punching spastic lines, begging anyone – anyone at all – to complete the joke.


          It was one of those dreams where I went to pee and my dick flew off. Like some Buddhist temples in Thailand, where a native comes up to you with a bird inside a handheld cage.
          Cough up ten bucks, you can open the gate. The bird flies off. Presto – your karma improves.
          On a day thick with tourists, the guy can make up to a couple hundred. Because the bird, of course, is trained to fly back. But about that part, with respect to my unit, I wasn’t sure – it being a notoriously hardheaded member of the congregation.
          The angst got too intense. For several blips I swooned, while consciousness rethreaded itself… and slowly my eyes re-focused...
          When at my back I detected fluttering.
          I raised a hand to my shoulder. Then snapped back, grabbed and in one motion jammed the bugger back onto my crotch.
          I took a breath. Held it two beats. Took away my hand. Thing held steady.
          I exhaled with relief. Stood once again in a clean pleasantly-lit head.
          But when I finally looked down, my eyes froze on the foreskin. I am circumcised. This was not my johnson. How many organs were out there flying around?
          I peeled back the puce prepuce, hoping to spot on the shaft a phone number, an address; at least a name.
          When I saw – in a mirror – my dick fly down the hall. I knew it was mine because it packed a Luger – my dick addicted to automatics.
          I ran out of the bathroom like a bat out of hell. Hadda reclaim my unit. Could not continue – some other guy’s schlong dangling below my breadbasket. Made me feel gay.
          Led me on a merry chase through the house. Darted behind curtains. Got my head bonked under the breakfast nook table.
          Finally cornered the sucker out in the kitchen. Where it hovered over the phone; knocked the receiver off the hook – pointing at me – without looking – the automatic.
          It punched, dipping bill like a hummingbird, 911. Thing mute, of course; all johnsons are.
          But didn’t need to talk. They’d trace the call. Armed response in minutes. Well – an hour. This a big city. People here at night call a lot of cops. Sometimes the law is too busy being shot at to arrive before you have time to run down and glue back on your dick.
          Which brought up that other problem: how remove the unit currently on? Furthermore, when – after I secure the correct penis? Or rip the thing off right now; just go for it – toss the puce imposter in the garbage disposal; then – lunging for the switch – snatch off the phone – to re-install on the fly – herby?
          While I pondered, the little frigger zipped twice around my head; fled, when I swatted at it, into the refrigerator. I wrapped a fist around the usurper – ready in a jiff to eject it from the cockpit. Jerked open fridge door.
          And there on a shelf inside the door – between the ketchup and the mustard – stood my dick, frantically impersonating a tube of anchovy paste. I wavered – eyeing the condiments, calculating how best seize the fugitive.
          Pizza became an idea. Fancied squeezing paste on top of a slice.
          “You’re choking…” squealed a tiny voice… “me!”
          Following the sound, I looked down.
          “You’re choking me!” repeated the alien clenched in my fist.
          Stunned, not knowing what to say, I blurted, “Dicks can’t talk!”
          “Not only talk, but read your mind – just like your rightful organ. Hey – you think I like being attached to the wrong guy?’
          I stuttered. Or was that the Luger firing from between the Heinz and the French’s? Whatever, projectiles pricked me with contradictory urges.
          The hooded punk sneered, how would I like to see the inside of a garbage disposal? Was I so coldblooded as to be unable to put myself in his shoes?
          I loosened my grip. Empathy is essential to mental health. No way I wanted to be seen as incapable of shame.
          Kept half an eye on the anchovy paste. Riveted the majority of my attention down between my legs, asking, “OK smartypants, how would you set everything straight? And… where do you belong?”
          “I originated on Mars,” he spat up. “Arrived on a comet. Been orbiting your bathroom since last night. Nazi doctors are cloning colonies on the polar caps. I’m not sure whom I go with, frankly; possibly Dr. Mengele himself. But look, what you need to do is…” and he whispered gibberish only a dream could understand.
          Then a gap swallowed the tape…
          To reveal me slouched above the bowl – as if nothing had happened. But the instant sufficient calm grew for the minuscule mouth to say psss! “my” dick flew off.
          Ketchup flooded. Mustard howled. Smell of fish birthed. Plenty of fish in the sea; although I saw none.
          I stood back on earth, dead to the world. Late as ever came the police.

Willie Smith's story collection NOTHING DOING available on Amazon.
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