My story "I Know Why the Wage Slave Sings" is included in this fantastic anthology edited by Shane Allison.
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When I got back to my desk, the phones were starting to ring and my cube-mate Roscoe was standing in front of his desk talking on the phone to his alcoholic father. “I told you I can’t talk about this right now,” he said, then clapped the phone shut.
“Tough times?” I asked.
“Fuckin’ parents,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said, booting up my computer and logging in to check my calendar.
Whatever. Roscoe knows I’m an orphan; he says that shit to annoy me. Not my fault his father is a blithering alcoholic who calls him about forty times a day, sobbing or raging into his cell phone. Sometimes I can hear the old guy railing and screaming. It’s almost enough to make me feel sorry for Roscoe, but the bottom line is that when your dad’s the third richest man in Virginia and a former Bush Cabinet member—that’s W, not Herbert Walker—you don’t get a lot of pity from me.
I’d do him, though.
Roscoe, not the dad.
I know you’re thinking: Shit, this is one crass motherfucker. Well, fuck you. He’s got this perfect ass, like a pair of luscious melons that ride beneath the charcoal grey of his work slacks, just bouncing there like they’re hangin’ totally free just beneath the cotton. I would rip his pants down to his ankles and slide my face into his fragrant crevice in a second if I thought he’d let me. I can imagine the smell, sweaty and a little funky, like maybe he ran to catch the shuttle from the commuter parking annex this morning, but sweet tasting and moist like expensive saltwater taffy.
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