A Fuckhead and the Glass Wall (The Promiscuist Collection, Single 18)
Al Vee
Copyright 2012 by Al Vee, DA TOP Books
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Copyright © 2012 Al Vee | Copyright © 2012 DA TOP Books, New York | Art direction, cover, interior and title design, illustrations by Al Vee | Mailing Address: DA TOP Books, PO Box 1183, LIC, NY 11101, USA | Web Site: www.da-top.com | Email: info@da-top.com
In this issue:
SINGLE 18
The Promiscuist: A Pussian Guide to New York (Collection 1)
by Al Vee | Copyright © 2012 Al Vee, DA TOP Books
Single 18: A Fuckhead and the Glass Wall
1 Glass Wall 1 Photographer 1 Hit 1 Ever Lasting Turndown 1 Line 100000 Sheep
Continued from Single 13: The Fight, Blood, Murder, Police
After the fight and 911 call under the Russian Moonshine, Photographer took the day off and slept it through, with short breaks, and then all through the night. With eyes half-open, he jumped off of the subway escalator in the morning and ran to the turnstiles…
It was the first day of the month out there, and he completely forgot about the new pass for the Greenville train. To buy one, he would need to stick in the line to the vending machine room for about 15 minutes. Photographer ran out of his building on the normal schedule. Down in the subway, he got lucky. He managed to slide through the closing doors of the car, extending and twisting his shoulders through the crack between the rubber-lined doors.
The Demons were enjoying their work…
He was in a hurry, running down the sloping ramp into the heart of Grand Central, cursing. The crowd was thicker than usual, commuters and tourists pushing out into the city. Photographer maneuvered between people, zig-zagging around slow movers, blocky shoulder bags and timetable readers. He had learned this technique while skating in Bryant Park, the only free ice rink in New York City. It was always packed, and you had to constantly dodge, pivot, move and accelerate in the dense crowd of barely moving bush-league morons, like a jackal in the midst of a flock of sheep.
Photographer continued his run through the Grand Central, cutting against the flow of humanity approaching and spinning like a peg top toy, circling the people in his path. The line to vending machines was manageable – 12 people deep – but he still shifted from side to side, checking his phone and counting the minutes. Missing the train meant getting to work late. That translated into losing half of lunch – and making the list once again in the IT department manager’s personnel file. When he finally reached the machines, his practiced fingers moved with a purpose across the touch screen, like a determined girl working on a man’s fly. He ran through the menus with confident motions and stuck his credit card into the greedy slot. It immediately sucked the plastic in. This is where Photographer made his mistake. He relaxed for just a moment. The screen, as always, asked whether he wanted a receipt, but his finger moved faster than his mind, and he tapped “No.”
The Demon behind him broke into a bleak grin.
The machine spit out his monthly pass, but not the receipt he need to show the accounting department. Without it, he wouldn’t be getting his $220 in tax free cash reimbursed. Hot from his mistake, he slammed his palm on the side of the machine and turned to sprint for the train. He had three minutes. Photographer hadn’t gone three steps when he noticed an orphan receipt lying on the polished marble floor. He scooped it up, hoping with unlikely hope it was a match and he could use it for his report. Scanning the small rectangle of paper as moved, he started to curse silently. Different station. One trip…
Bam
The impact was instant and crushing, turning his field of vision into streaks of light and electric pain. The bridge of his nose and forehead had met a rigid glass barrier. The nose was beginning to swell, and the entire right side of his face was pulsing with knifelike throbs of pain. Squeezing his watering eyes closed, he heard the loud clunk of the collision reverberate through the confined space of the ticket machine room. Now he knew what the characters felt in the movies, when they knocked somebody through a plate-glass window. That strong blow just stopped his brain. Photographer rolled his loony eyes, clutching his hand over the forehead.
The arch separating the machines from the concourse was made of thick, shatterproof glass. The glass did not have any pictures or insignia. It was just a seamless piece of transparent wall from floor to ceiling in the dimly lit arch of the old passageway. You couldn’t see it in the shade – and it had even been cleaned recently. Photographer hit it perfectly square.
It startled the hell out of the pencil pushers and day workers who watched him from the other side of the transparent membrane. Their eyes expressed a variety of thoughts. Photographer cursed, out loud this time, and the herd of corporate sheep parted and gave him some subtle space. Securing his bag, he ran for the train. Two minutes.
He hopped on the 8:11. The train was two cars shorter than usual, and he was one of the last to board. He would probably have to ride standing up all the way to Greenville, shoulder to shoulder in one of the exit alcoves. Photographer started walking through the cars, hoping for the best. The picture in every car was the same: no place to perch himself, or to lean. The mood bobbed up and down, like a yo-yo on the string. Photographer prepared to stand, then he noticed an empty seat. Two oversize, buffed up brokers or bond traders sat with their knees spread, covering the triple seat. Photographer came over and politely parted them. He sat down carefully and fixed his stare at the accelerating view out the window.
Yes, this morning the Demons had had their fun: The Eternal Orgasm was pushed two steps back.
Photographer touched his swollen nose. It was warm, and tender to the touch. He watched the dirty buildings slide away as the train left the ever-rotten apple of New York City. Wire fences and grimy, tagged walls ran close by the window. The proximity and the infinite perspectives scared him. His nose ached, and his head buzzed. “Hey, Fuckhead!” he thought, and got out the iPhone.
One line lit up the front of the display.
“Isabella was always horny… Poor kid.”
To be continued
Coming Next – Single 19: Ever Horny Isabella
1 client 1 photo shoot 1 pussy
7 piercings 1 extreme head 100 000 tourists
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Eternal Orgasm: A Pussian Guide to New York (Collection 2)
by Al Vee | Copyright © 2012 Al Vee, DA TOP Books
69 Rules for True Ladies
Paperback: 142 pages
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Language: English
ISBN-10: 1936550911 ISBN-13: 978-1936550913
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