He’s going to be alright. Everything’s fine. A-OK. Alright alright alright: Phil’s dead. Dead as a dead man is dead. Flip a coin— heads he’s dead and tails he’s dead. Shit; I don’t even have a quarter.
Phil reminded me via text that he needed a ride to work. Since I’m no longer driving Roz I figured I could step it up and pick up that toothless bag of shit-bones. He gave me the address so I went to get him ‘round 5:30 am. Once I got in front of his ramshackle one-story I laid into the horn like a horn rapist would.
But no Phil. I laid into the horn again. It was the Bay of Pigs of horn honking, I’ll tell ya, I’ll tell ya. Horning fucking all over the place. But still no Phil. So I texted him the following:
Phil, I could have masturbated at least twice by now. Get out here.
Five minutes go by with no response, so I tested the theory out. Definitely twice, I learned. And hold your judgment for another day: it’s not like Phil was going to notice he rode in a puddle of semen to work until at least two in the afternoon.
After finishing up I wiped my seed on the passenger head rest, got out of my car, and went up to Phil’s door to wipe off the rest of my jizz on his door knob. I decided to go into the house; I figured, you know, either he’s asleep or I’m at the wrong place. I’ve got nothing left to lose after honking my horn like a psycho and masturbating in the driveway. The least I could do was walk in the house and show the poor Mexican family I had been terrifying for 20 minutes what a complete lack of shame looks like.
The man didn’t even have a doorbell. How Phil of him. I woulda knocked but I didn’t want to get a splinter which would have ruined any chance I had to jerk it before work.
“Knock knock, motherfucker,” I said, pushing the crum shit splintered door right open. There were no lights on. Not good. On the bright side, I thought, now you don’t have to drive Phil to work and be forced to smell his awful offal. To think if I had just turned around then…
The place just reeked of laundry— generally a positive. The house was well-kept, too, which would have been surprising if it wasn’t shit-pants-Phil’s place. Phil’s house wasn’t the complete shit hole I thought it was, but then again I never expected Phil to live in a house.
Should really stop talking shit on a dead guy right now and just get to the part where he’s dead.
No lights on, though, so I just started to kick shit…but not on purpose. It was hard not to kick anything because, as the backlight on my phone showed me, the place was just littered with dildos. Shapes, sizes, battery compartments for AAA’s and D-cells. You could do a google search for dildos and the first three pages would have nothing on this place. Easter Island of dildos— don’t know how they got here or why, but you want to know. And I had to know. And I should have turned around then. I shouldn’t have followed the Hansel and Gretel trail of dildos down the hall to… There was a light on. A room down the hallway was cracked open and its pale, dim light led me towards it.
It was definitely Phil’s place because I opened the door and saw him passed out on the ground, covered in dildos. He’s in a red shirt and army camo shorts. He looks like he just slept in a tree and not on top a throne of dildos.
“Okay, Phil, if you’re still in bed I’m going,” I said, aghast but hardly surprised at the entire situation.
“Goddamn, Phil,” I said “It smells like laundry in here, man.”
Phil rolled himself over. “Hello, Chrishhh,” he slurred.
“Still Charlie, bro. Char-lee. Lets go: it’s time for work,” I said.
“I can’t…can, just— give me a shecond. I’m really drunk,” he said.
“That’s not news but okay,” I said. Phil tried to stand up but collapsed again, grabbing hold of his bed post. “Fuck, dude, you’re schmammered. What did you drink last night?”
“This morning—,” Phil corrected me, “I drank that entire bottle of whiskey.” He pointed a shaky hand toward his bed stand. On it sat a handle of Maker’s Mark. A full bottle of Maker’s Mark.
“Phil,” I asserted, “That bottle isn’t even open.”
“Sure it ish,” he said, “What else could I have drank?”
“Robitussen. Remember the bottle I gave you on Thursday?”
“I remember it wearing off ‘round three AM.”
“And when did you say you started with the whiskey?”
“Jesus, Phil,” I exclaimed, invoking a deity that could not save the man at this point. The man had started drinking while still on his robo-trip. “That’s no way to keep the high going,” I said. And he didn’t start drinking anything…wait. My eyes darted around the room, looking for what Phil could have drank instead of the whiskey. My legs had to stay put, however; I didn’t want to step on anymore dildos.
I really hope this shit isn’t incriminating.
Under Phil’s bed I saw a bottle of bleach on its side. Fuck. No doubt the bottle was empty. I thought about reaching under his bed, but then again, the dildos.
“Phil, have you thrown up?”
He didn’t respond, his left hand still white-knuckled around the bed post.
“Phil?” I said again. Still no response. He just stopped responding forever.
Most people would have performed CPR but Phil didn’t have teeth, so I wasn’t particularly ready to save a guy God gave up on 32 teeth ago.
I went home to write about a man who drowned in a sea of dildos.
1) Is Charlie responsible for the death of his co-worker. And if so— why?
2) Are you familiar with Good Samaritan laws? Was it smart for Charlie to not perform CPR on Phil?
3) Who let the dogs out?