Two themed stories by David Mac

Two themed stories
by David Mac

Skywalker Picks up Chicks

(A bar. Old Skywalker sits and chats to some young girl. He is drunk again. It’s late. He wants to get laid.)
Hey, angel tits, why don’t you come sit a little closer? That’s it. Yeah, baby, come up here and sit beside me, girl. I wanna get to know you.

(She moves closer.)

Wow, you are pretty, honey. Hey, how old are you? Yeah? That’s a sweet age, mmm.

Yeah, I feel I know you now. Hey, you gotta nice body. You know that? You know you got a nice body? Why sure you do.

You know who I am? Lazarus Skywalker.

Yeah, yeah, of course; he’s my cousin. But I don’t see much of him no more. But hey, who can’t use no light sabre, I tell ya!
Wanna another drink? Ah, come on.

Two more drinks !

Hey, I don’t live far, so how about we drink these and head back there, huh? I got some booze at mine. Why not, sugar? Come on, it’ll be fun. You and me. Whatta you say? You’ll think about it? Swell.

Hey, baby girl, you sure are cute and…

Can I use the force?

Why sure I can, honey, it’s in my genes, if you know what I mean. But I can’t do it here. They don’t like Jedis, or those related to them, here. Let’s go back to mine.

Well hey, okay, yeah, whatever. We can stay a little longer. But hey, girl, you got to just get a little closer now. Come, on.
(Poor girl moves up to him and lets old letch maul her.)

That’s it sweetheart, you get close to me now. Yeah, put your hand there, I’ll slide my arm around you and, hey, you mind my hand there? You feel so good.

Okay, sure, we can talk.

Ah, you know, I coulda used a mind trick on you. A mind trick. Yeah, that’s the one. You heard of the old Jedi Mind trick, eh? Why, sure I can do them. I coulda used one on yer, baby, but hey, I’m not that kinda guy.

(Whispers.) Hey, lissen. I got some stuff back at mine, we could do. Yeah, yeah. High. That’s it. You like to get high? Cool.
So why don’t we finish these and go back?

Where do I live? It ain’t far, baby. I live in Kenobi’s old pad. You know it?

Ha, and I got these fucking little cute Jawas who work for me. Ha! You ever fucked a Jawa?

You not from around here, huh? Well, you heard of Jabba the Hut?

Ah, come on! You musta heard of him: big, yellow slug gangster. Yeah, well I know his son, we go way back. I get all my gear from him. He lives out this way.

You know that guy I was talking to, that fucking guy I was with earlier, the brown one, ugly, head all bent like some pretzel. Well, he used to work for Jabba back in the day.

And…

Hey, where you goin’?

Huh? You gotta go?

Well, you just got here, baby. Hey, it’s cool. No, hey, but…

(Girl leaves. Skywalker sighs, looks about.)

(Sees another girl up the bar. Slides up three seats to her.)

Hey baby, you know who I am? Lazarus Skywalker.

Yeah, yeah.

He’s my cousin…

&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*


Bum Notes, Beware!

When bum hole spoke to me I felt the curious emotion of how a parent must feel upon hearing their child’s first word.

Like a burble, or gurgle.

Or daddy. ‘Say daddy.’

I was amazed and proud, happy for the bum hole. At last it had learnt; at last it had evolved into something good and decent.

You see, it had always been a moody kind of a thing. Each sound was usually a grunt or parp or rasp or peep, or mighty trombone blast. Sometimes a hoot or howl, a quack, a whistling, whiz-pop-bang.

Other times it gave soulful contemplative notes, like sad bum blues, straight from the hole. Anal rectal recitals. Bum notes.

But now it seemed to having something to say.

‘Whassat?’ I asked, bent over, cupping hand to my ear. ‘What you say? Speak again? Speak, arse.’

‘Can I have a cup of tea and a fag,’ said the hole. ‘I’m gasping.’

And now I knew that good conversations would never be too far away from me. We could discuss it all. Great bending notes to sound from my anus’s lips. A bellow, a roar, a booming mouth up there up my back passage.

And out on the street, a commotion going off in my trousers.

‘Shut up, you bum!’ was what people used to say to me. Now they say this: they say, ‘Shut up your bum!’ But he has so much to say.

‘Tell you what, son,’ he said to me. ‘I been listening to you up there talking all yer life. I been trying to form words with me hole, trying to learn the talk, see? I see the way you speak and converse with people you meet, people in yer life. Now I wanna do it.’

‘But how,’ I asked. ‘How will I get anyone to speak to my butt?’

‘This is how, boy,’ and bum hole sounded most upset now, ‘you’re gonna crawl, and don’t worry, coz I’ll lead the way!’

‘You mean crawl backwards with my arse in the air?’

‘That’s right, son.’

And this was then the way it was to be from now on, me, walking backwards always, or crawling backwards, my face now covered from view and just my arse revealed. And when I sat down I now sat upon my head and craned my arse up to see the world. And I was no longer allowed to speak or muster a single word. If I did, I just got, ‘Hey, shush, down there,’ from bum hole.


I could hear him talking, talking, talking. Talking to my work colleagues, my family, my friends, and if I tried to interact or join into a conversation I just heard him go, ‘Oh, excuse me,’ or, ‘pardon me.’

And soon people no longer greeted me at all, they greeted my arse. ‘Morning arse,’ they’d say. ‘How are you today?’

‘You know,’ he’d reply. ‘Another day another dollar. Same shit different day.’

And they’d laugh.

So it was my bum that everyone seemed to like to hang around with. He’d get invited out to social functions and gave the most witty anecdotes to people, sometimes giving long speeches, jokes, punch lines. A rectal raconteur.

I would hear the people applauding and saying, ‘Good speech, good speech, bravo!’ and he’d be given expensive cigars to smoke and good champagne to drink, and me, I was just forgotten. And soon he could recite poetry and speak numerous languages, and me, all I could do, having not spoken for so long, was emit fart noises.

So, let this be the warning to the reader: do not take your posterior for granted.

And whatever you do, don’t teach the fucker to talk!


Author bio:

David Mac is a no-good ghoul that turns up at inappropriate moments, staggering and swaying, jabbering and howling, and moving rapidly through town to ‘Get The Work Done.' His work is appearing in Ambit, Mud Luscious, Monkey Kettle, and This Zine Will Change Your Life. He is currently in a whirl of madman-typing to get everything written before he dies. He knows time is cheap and there isn’t much of it. In his spare time he drinks wine and rides wild forklifts.