Archive Saturday: Alison

Archive Saturday, where I drunkenly repost terrible writing from my old webpage.The Remnants of Allison Will Continue to Soak the Gulf Coast
by nacho

That fucking whore is a fallen woman. I can’t believe she left me. Here
I sit, crying my heart out, while she fucks her way around the Gulf
Coast. She’s spreading those vile legs at every truck stop and biker
bar on the coast, soaking the sweaty, acne-ridden, disheveled masses.
It’s all over. I know it is. It began in New Orleans, what I had
intended to be a romantic vacation. We stayed at St. Vincents and tried
to get in touch with the ghosts…oh, she was such a sweetheart. You
don’t understand! She was a beautiful woman! The kindest woman on
earth… Innocent, naive. She believed in helping people, in changing
the world. She was a woman of dreams, a woman of power.

Oh, look at that. Naive is “Evian” spelled backwards. That’s odd… That can’t be a coincidence, can it?

Allison and I hit Bourbon Street one night, pressed in by the mewling
frat boys with their buttflap-jeans hanging open and bloodied snot
frothing at their mouths like driven horses. They all pressed close, a
drunken mob screaming for fat girls and flabby tits. Beer flowed around
my ankles and chilled rum covered the back of my shirt like sweat as I
sucked down Hand Grenades and smoked a cohiba. At one point, my
glistening aluminum cowboy hat was knocked from my head and I threw
myself into the middle of a brawl in an attempt to steal a ragged John
Deere cap, which would fetch a pretty penny in a Ghana fishmarket. Some
kid from LSU had a knife, out and ready, but in his drunken madness he
missed his lunge. Several minutes later, as I jammed my hand deep into
his intestines, I noticed that Allison was gone. I don’t know when or
how, but she had vanished.

For days afterward, I searched high and low for my sweet love. It
wasn’t until the shoeshine man, endlessly droning “whiteboy-want
cocaine-women-crack” in between shouted calls announcing that he knew
where I got my shoes, took a moment from fleecing tourists to tell me
about a new girl in town. The best a man ever had, he said, and her
name was Allison.

I rushed to a basement apartment on Magazine where I found my beautiful
Allison covered in the seed of dozens of men. A syringe hung loosely
from her leg as a line of men stood patiently for one of their comrades
to finish up. I chased away the crows and brought Allison back to St.
Vincents. She had been with 52 men in 2 days, and, as soon as she was
able to speak, she insisted that I lay her in bed and call a man named
Black Tooth. To my horror, she admitted to a certain thrill as the men
piled up to drive themselves deep inside her. She had never felt more
powerful, and she told me her goal was 500 men in one year. She was
addicted to sex, drunk on cock, mad about the…uh…mouse?

She left me that night. Drifting off into the unforgiving rain with Black Tooth to recoup at some lawless holdfast in the bayou.

On this very night, as you read this, the remnant of my beautiful
Allison is soaking the Gulf Coast. She is stretching from southeastern
Louisiana into southern Georgia and northern Florida.