Contributor: David Altman
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The Shitasm Diaries Entry #1
Shitasm and the gang were making friends down by the shore. Making friends meant making amends: bended knee, bowed head, that sort of thing. "Sorrys" were offered and some "Never agains" and with clasped hands there were mentions of "forever and ever" and vague assurances of joyous future plans.
Shitasm turned to FaFuckle and smiled, and wished, and laughed, because he got his wish, which was this:
"Destroy my enemies and make me a god. Destroy my friends and make me Eternity. It's not endless power I want - It's relative success I seek."
FaFuckle crumpled to his knees as tendons and ligaments turned to powder. Then the knees went - bones and muscle giving way to a hideous pool of nothing on the ground, or sort of nothing in the sense that it was anything but: offal, gutsies, boney shards, all swilling together in a hearty gore stew and draining down the slight slope of the shore as azure waves lapped or something, smoothing out the goosh into a less offensive but still gross mélange. Ottobutts, in the midst of eyebrow raising and hand waggling, took note of the mess, bending over to get a good whiff of the remains. The idea spread quick like, and old ‘Butts let out a scream of horror right before his eyes deflated to vitreous muck and his heart exploded. His skin turned light and creamy as it dissolved, and Shitasm swooped in to run a finger along his forearm, wicking away the fleshy flesh for a curious taste. (And yes, ‘twas of vanilla.) Dicks and Damnsa were chatting and then Dicks was dying - assumedly - as his ribs flim-flammed outward and the appropriate amount of mutilation that would accompany that happened. In response, Damnsa, as always, made a spectacle of things, dancing and dancing when her clothes suddenly went alight in bright blue flame. She was crying or giggling, it was hard to tell. Until, of course, she was ashes, and then her silence was easy to discern.
It kept going, you know, the wish. Spitzer, Bamfart, Hellsinki, Asstolio, Peetur, Cuntle, S’biles... they all passed, generally in manners graphic, or stupid, or pointless.
And Shitasm watched it all, sort of fascinated, but sort of bored.
"I sort of wish I had wished for something else," he muttered.
Well, it's maybe too late for that, but I'll tell you what I can offer:
This airplane full of cash, an evening with ten hot celebrities, and this talking baby gorilla.
"I'll take it!" Shitasm hooted, skipping over an unidentifiable carcass.
"Fuck this friendship shit," he was heard to declare, "Wishes are where it's at!"
And as he rode his mechanical horse - also part of the gift package - into the alien sunset, we would all do well to remember:
The narrator grants all gifts.
All you have to do is ask.
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DAVID ALTMAN has lived in many basements in Queens for a good chunk of his life and keeps seeking different ways to rewrite Catch-22 as filtered through a childhood of Ren and Stimpy and Turtles cartoons. He spent several years in retail management - which did nothing to dispel his cynicism - and now several years in IT QA - which has done nothing to make him move into non-basements. He has never won any writing awards or been published but remains in good spirits / drunk.
