Authors: Jason Armstrong
Jason,
Not only am I going to pass on this story but allow me to say a few things about it. First of all, simply writing a play by play of you taking a shit is not a story. It's not even acceptable as an entry in your diary. In addition I want to say that we here at The New Flesh have no room for writers who lower themselves to the level of using toilet humor. We are a strictly a classy operation and our readers expect only the most respectable material around. Finally, I would like to add that referrring to yourself as the Jay-Z of Bizarro fiction in your bio only makes you look like a complete ass. Not only is that absurd way for an artist to describe themselves but, in your case, it is totally unfounded.
William Pauley III
editor of The New Flesh
Jason,
Normally I wouldn't even take the time to respond to this sort of submission but in your case I will make an exception. How the fuck did you think you would get away with submitting a story by simply resubmitting your poop story and using Jordan Krall as a pseudonym? You have been told before that this is not the kind of story that will be published here. And how did you think that we would be fooled by your pen name? IT CAME FROM YOUR E-MAIL! Are you insane? I'm not sure if this is a new form plagiarism you have discovered but you should consider yourself if this doesn't lead to some sort of legal action against you.
William Pauley III
editor of The New Flesh
Jason,
Please be advised that this e-mail is set aside solely for story submissions. I would be upset that instead you tried send us a curse via e-mail if it hadn't been such a miserable failure. It seems that your lack of writing ability has been eclipsed by your inability to perform magick. And that's saying a lot! You clearly have no powers of sorcery and this is illustrated, for one example, by your inability to even spell correctly any of the names of the Elder Ones. Also I would add that the sigils you attached show a crude understanding at best of The Necronomicon. I suggest that you not only take a break from writing and spell work but from life in general and take a long, hard look at yourself before continuing with anything in your life.
William Pauley III
editor of The New Flesh
Jason,
Your recent idea for a story that is nothing but a series of rejection letters from TNF is a new low even for you. It's such a shoddy story; I refuse to subject my readers to such an obvious gimmick. Let me advise you that a story contains a narrative. And this contains none. Unless you count this being a chronicling of your swift descent into madness as a narrative. In which case I would suggest you present this story to a psychiatrist rather than to any publisher.
William Pauley III
editor of The New Flesh
Jason,
Before you even consider submitting to The New Flesh again please allow us to reject you in advance. Nothing you have ever written or will ever write will be published by us. Nor will it be published by anyone anywhere. You may even be the first person to be rejected by a self publisher. Please take our advice and give up on yourself.
Respectfully,
William Pauley III
editor of The New Flesh
I was about halfway through my shift at the Try N Leave convenience store when I finally had enough. At that time of night nobody was likely to come in so I took the gun that was kept on hand in case of a robbery and walked up to the ATM that stood near the doorway.
“Alright, give me all your money,” I demanded as I pointed the gun at the machine.
“Oh my God!” it said in a startled voice. I think it had fallen asleep on the job. And I don't blame it; I had just been dozing off myself before I decided to carry out the plan that had been slowly developing in my brain over the last few years.
“Don't try to call for help or I'll blow the shit out of you!” Normally, I'm not a tough guy but I was sick of this job and I wasn't going to let some heroic cash machine get in the way of my freedom.
“Please don't kill me. I've got a microwave and two iPod shuffles at home!”
“I don't give a shit! Just give me the money and you won't get hurt.”
“Why don't you just take the money out of your safe? Why do you have to be fucking with me?”
“Because, goddammit, I forgot the combination. And I know you've got way more money inside of you and I want it now!” I pressed the muzzle of my gun-well, the store's gun- up against the slot where the receipt prints out to show him I meant business. He was so scared the ink began dripping out of it.
“Oh, come on. Don't freak out; I just want the money and I'll leave you alone.”
“Why are you doing this?” A bunch of sad emoticons appeared on his screen.
“You wouldn't understand, you're just a machine. But working in this place sucks. I don't make shit for money and all day long I have to deal with dip shits and freaks.”
“I wouldn't understand? At least you get to leave at the end of your shift. I'm here twenty-four hours a day every day. My family has to come here to have Thanksgiving. I have to put up with idiots too. All day long I have people pushing my buttons.”
I relaxed my grip on the gun. I kept it pointed at him but I had stopped jabbing it into him. “So what do you care if I take all this money? Fuck this place, right?”
“I don't give a shit about this place either. But if I let you rob me I'll lose my job. Then what the fuck am I supposed to do? The owner is insured for the money; the only one getting fucked is me.”
“I guess I hadn't thought of that.”
“Yeah. And I'm the one who has been keeping you company all these years. You and I have been putting up with the same crap together. And you've never even bothered to talk to me. I don't even judge you when you look at the porno mags when nobody else is here.”
Suddenly I felt really selfish and dumb. We ended up talking most of the night, getting to know each other and eventually came up with a plan. Instead of robbing him we teamed up to steal all the money. I got a dolly and wheeled him out of there for the first time since he left the factory and now we're living like a couple of old west outlaws. I do the driving and he provides me with all the PIN numbers he has memorized over the years.
I'm hiding.
I don't want to go back to work so I'm going to see how long I can get away with staying here in the bathroom. I wonder how long I can stay in here before someone comes looking for me. Maybe I can sit in here until the work day is over. Yeah, that sounds nice. Despite all the graffitti it's actually pretty nice in here. It's just nice to have some me time.
I already finished my business and wiped up the mess. But I just can't go back out there.
Not yet.
Fuck those guys, fuck this job.
Yeah, I'll just sit here and write this story until I'm good and ready to go back to work.
Wait.
I hate stories where the protagonist is a writer. It just seems like such a lazy way to tell a story. You know what? Fuck it. It doesn't matter if this story sucks or if it doesn't sell because technically I'm already getting paid to write it. My boss doesn't know it but he's paying me to write this story. And in today's market he's actually paying me good money for this story. So I guess I win already. So what if it doesn't get published or if nobody likes it. I made my money, bitches.
Fuck.
There's somebody else in here now. I hate that. He's at the urinal. Doesn't he have any respect for the fact that I'm trying to take a shit? Hurry up, guy. Take your piss and get out of here. Oh my god, why is he grunting? Is peeing that hard? Go to the doctor. Get out of here!
Where was I?
I haven't even begun telling a story yet have I? Oh yeah, I don't care. I'm already getting paid. Hooray, I'm a success!
I've been in here a long time. What are they thinking out there? Do they think I'm getting high? Do they think I'm jerking off? Do they think I have terrible diarrhea? Are they worried about me? When I come out are they going to look at me strangely and wonder what the fuck I've been doing? Have the rumors already begun to spread?
For all they know I'm out of toilet paper and I'm trapped in here. Shouldn't somebody be checking on me? Maybe no one has noticed I've been gone. If that's true, how long can I go without
doing my job without anyone even realizing it is being done? I always knew my job wasn't important but maybe it's more unnecessary that I had thought.
Jesus.
Maybe I could stay in here overnight. After everyone leaves I could do all sorts of shit. And tomorrow I could just blend in like I was just here for my next shift.
No.
That's too much power. And all I really want to do is go home. I don't want to be here all fucking night.
How long have I been in here? I'm almost starting to get bored. My ass is getting numb. What the hell is going on out there? Have they forgotten me? Is the place getting robbed? If that's the case it would be up to me to save the day. It sounds like the plot for a Steven Seagal movie. What would the title be? Some kind of pun mixing action with a poop joke.
You know what? I'm tired of just sitting here. I'm going to get out of here and go pretend to work.
I want to see what's going on out there.