Thursday, March 16, 2023

Rich Beyer Chronicles (2) Guest Author

As mentioned in the title, this is a guest post. Credit to Glynnis.

The elevator doors slide open. The light spills on a well-defined but mature chest; dry-aged like a quality Costco wagyu. The scene is lit only by an emergency halogen bulb standing on guard outside of the hallway.

Rich Beyer steps out of the dingy elevator, and realizes he's on the wrong floor. "Basement?" he cries. "Shit. I meant to go to the sub-basement." He steps back into the car, his half-torn sustainable organic bamboo shirt mopping up thimbles of saline from his soft shoulders as he reaches a gnarled finger to select the proper floor.

Rich takes- or rather, attempts to take- a deep breath into his dry-rotted cigarette filled lungs, coughs, and hacks up a gritty loogie. He does not spit, he swallows. He certainly can't ruin the floor of his Schindler passenger class 330XL Traction elevator... Rich steps out of the elevator car in the sub basement and pauses, allowing the ambient heartbeat of the building pour into his hirsute disc-like ears.

"Hello?" he called warily. "Who the FUCK is in my sub basement?" Silence answers his demand. The contractor's pallets of caulk load into the hallway, and Rich surveys his immediate area with caution. 

"Hi there," drips a voice from the shadows. She steps out behind a forklift, and saunters in front of Rich. A tall-ish woman- 5'7"- with a clump of curly black hair and pubescent bangs joining her unmanicured eyebrows meets his eyes. Rich stares in silence, not sure how to respond to this mystery woman. She ejaculates a deep, throaty cackle, and her 38 C bosom ripples the Phish logo on her ancient t shirt. 

"What's your name, sweetheart?" Rich growls. "I am pretty sweaty..." she says. "My name is GOD."

"God? Really?" responds Rich, a quizzical look on his Quizno's stuffed face. Rich wasn't a church-going man, of course. Particularly after finding his name appear on the shit list of the local Episcopalians after indulging in too many unconsecrated communion wafers and unholy Boone's Farm in 1978.

"That's all you need to know about me," purred God rather breastfully. Rich chuckled at the woma- uh, God- in front of him. He always wondered if God was a brunette.

"Does the celestial carpet match the Earthly drapes?" trawled Rich. God giggled and then suddenly enveloped herself in Rich's personal space. "You don't know what I'm capable of," cooed God as she waltzed by him, ovulating. 

"Can I ask you a personal question?" she added. Rich nodded. "Have you ever checked anyone's scalp for lice?" she asked a very confused Rich. 

"...No, I haven't," he replied slowly. "I didn't realize they had lice in the Heavenly Firmament."

"No worries," she offered. "I'll show you how," as she kneeled on her knees in front of Rich's stationary bosom. Prepared as always, Rich produced a lice comb from his breast pocket, and started to part the scalp of God like a discount working class Moses.

"You got nits," muttered Rich, as he hesitantly parsed his way through God's cerebral forest."


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