The ape stares at the unicorn with an angry look. The piercing stench of anchovies begins to annoy the ape.
“That’s odd it worked this morning,” says the unicorn.
“Listen man,” says the ape. I think you better take your stinky fish wings and fly the fuck on outta here.”
The unicorn spits the credit card out of his mouth, kept lodged between his teeth like a prison razorblade. The ape hands the unicorn a pack of Marlboro Lights. The ape swipes the credit card through the machine. The digital read-out reads “PROCESSING,” then shortly thereafter, “DENIED.”
“Sorry, no good.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he smiles to himself, as he types away feverishly.
The ape behind the counter gives the unicorn a disdainful look.
“I don’t see any pockets on you,” he shrieks at the unicorn. “You got any cash on you?”
“No,” says the unicorn. “But I have credit card.”
“Okay,” he said to himself. “I have no life experiences to draw from. I guess I’ll just have to make everything up.” He began to type:
A winged unicorn with anchovies for feathers walks into a convenience store and asks the ape behind the counter for a pack of cigarettes.
“Write what you know,” he thought to himself. He ran his hands through his hair with frustration and pounded his fist on the table. “Think, think! Write what you know,” he kept telling himself. At that moment it had dawned on him. He hadn’t lead much of an interesting life.
He turned the key over and over and tried to get the engine started again. Nothing happened. He got out and walked the rest of the way home. Later on that evening, he sat in front of his computer screen struggling over the blank document page in front of him.
The potato chips crunched in her mouth as she chewed and swallowed. She reached into the bag and grabbed another handful, but a few chips fell to the ground as she stuffed her mouthful. She looked to her left. Looked to her right. Then she picked them up and ate them.
“Last night I projectile-vomited for about 10 minutes in the middle of the street, before driving everyone to Taco Bell. Beat that!”
“That’s pretty good! I’m going to try to get so drunk tonight that I get beaten half to death by cops. Then, we’ll see who’s the bigger drunk!”
The drowsy hungover couple held hands on the grass as the clouds turned a bright pink from the sunrise. The boy said, “Don’t you think there is something romantic about waking up in your best friend’s yard with a vodka bottle for a pillow and your shoes in your hand?”
He sat at the bar drunker than he had felt in a really long time. The roar of the jukebox and loud conversation thrashed around in his head like the currents of a toilet bowl flush. “Shit,” he said looking at his watch. “Looks like I’m missing class again tomorrow.”