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    The Lamentable Fate of Mr. Fluffpaws and Other Stories
    The Lamentable Fate of Mr. Fluffpaws and Other Stories
    The Lamentable Fate of Mr. Fluffpaws and Other Stories
    Ebook74 pages1 hour

    The Lamentable Fate of Mr. Fluffpaws and Other Stories

    By AaronSummers

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    About this ebook

    In this debut collection of short stories by Aaron Summers, the human need for connection both to our world and each other is explored and expounded upon...with sex jokes. Two young drunken philosophers have a private audience with nature. A young boy discovers an uncanny surrogate for his recently departed mother. A teenager takes a lesson in feminism from his digital masturbatory aide. A man extols the virtues of cyber-sex...or does he? In a modern spin on Pygmalion, a pop star maker finds his ideal subject. A boy is led into adulthood with the help of cinema and his older sister's attractive friend. Two Sociopaths rekindle their lost romance. The Messiah returns!...briefly. A high school journalist ponders love, culture, and existence...while crunked.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAaronSummers
    Release dateFeb 26, 2014
    ISBN9781311165497
    The Lamentable Fate of Mr. Fluffpaws and Other Stories
    Author

    AaronSummers

    Aaron Summers is a graduate of Florida State University. When not writing (or giving the finger to the blinking cursor on his word processor) he often spends his free time drinking alone, sowing disharmony between his overly neurotic Jack Russell Terrier and three-legged cat, trolling Mother Teresa fan forums, and discussing Simone de Beauvoir with cam-site girls. He lives in Sarasota, Florida, and his life's ambition is to rewrite the complete works of Jane Austen using nothing but emoticons.

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      Book preview

      The Lamentable Fate of Mr. Fluffpaws and Other Stories - AaronSummers

      The Lamentable Fate of Mr. Fluffpaws

      and Other Stories

      by Aaron Summers

      Cover Art by Stellask

      Pubished by Aaron Summers at Smashwords

      Copyright 2014 Aaron Summers

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      The Philosophers

      We open the doors and get out of the car, out of the stream of cold air flowing from the dash and into the warm, damp humidity of an August midnight in Sarasota, Florida. I lick my lips for one more taste of sake and throw my leg out from the passenger’s side. Overcompensating, I find my balance leaving me with a brief spell of vertigo cut off by an organ-jostling thud. My cheek slams against a cool patch of grass and I hold it there for a while before brushing against it and taking a greedy whiff into my sinuses. The smell reminds me of the time Devin dared me to take a shot of wheatgrass, the taste of which, now resurrected on my pallet starts to make me gag. Devin starts laughing at me.

      You puking, lightweight? I see him stumbling off with his half empty sake bottle dangling from his hand. I plant the bottom of my own bottle on the ground and push myself erect.

      Fuck off. I pat loose bits of dirt and grass off my coat. The hell are we?

      It’s a surprise, he yells and walks on in uneven steps as I stumble after him. Vast and dark, in the distance, clusters of mobile homes and flatbed trailers. Beyond them all is the silhouette of a large dome structure. The closer I bob and lunge the more I can make out its shape, tapered edges and concave sides leading up to a pointed top.

      Are we at the circus? I ask. The tails of his black topcoat are fluttering off in the distance.

      It’s over, he calls back. His hand gestures out to the right. A line of headlights trail in a serpentine curve a few hundred yards away. The faint blare of a car horn can be heard over the wind in the trees and the mass cricket orgy going on all around us. I keep after him, watching Devin disappear in the shadow of an adjacent trailer. He’s about to bang on the door when I catch up and put my hand out.

      Hold, I tell him. He lowers his fist and leans against the side to face me. We’re both sweating and breathing heavily and my stomach is beginning to regret that last rainbow roll.

      Why are we here? I ask again.

      We’re staring into the void, he says. I sigh and lean against the trailer, fishing in my pocket for a cigarette. I pull one from the pack and screw it between my lips.

      Well, we should be careful, I say, un-clicking the top of my Zippo.

      And why’s that? I spark the flint and let the flame feed me a sweet draft of warm tobacco laced with a stomach settling dose of much needed nicotine.

      Because, I blow out a mouthful of smoke. The void stares into you. He starts laughing. Devin, I say, give me a reason to still be standing here.

      I’ll give you two, he says before knocking on the door between us. One: I paid for the sushi. Two: If not for me, you’d be all alone, measuring out your life in Starbucks stirring sticks and praying for the day you might happen upon some bookish little barista with whom you can discuss solipsism and The Liar’s Paradox.

      I drag on my smoke and start to wonder what that girl might be like, what she might be majoring in if she were a student, how she might look and laugh and smell and taste, when the door flies open and a flood of light cuts into the darkness. I stumble back and look up at the glowing doorway which is filled, almost entirely, with a tall hulk of a figure standing in the threshold.

      He wears mud-caked construction boots and thick blue jeans, a black t-shirt with a faded Judas Priest insignia under an open camouflage jacket. A wiry mesh of a beard patches up into a likewise unkempt head of hair covered by a wide trucker’s cap. He lowers his eyes at me and I start feeling like Odysseus facing Polyphemus before Devin steps forward and dips into a low bow.

      Money, says the big man. His tone indicates that he’s not impressed. Devin comes back up with a wad of bills out of his pocket that he slaps into the man’s out-stretched hand. He counts it, flipping the bills back with a set of meaty fingers with pocks of dirt stuck under the nails. The man steps back, satisfied, and jams the cash into the back pocket of his jeans. We’re waved in and Devin takes an enthused lunge up the tiny staircase. I’m about to follow when the man comes back into the door frame and puts his hand on my chest.

      No smoking, he says. I take the cigarette out of my mouth and toss it.

      A full third of the trailer is filled with another huge rectangular box covered in a thick burgundy sheet. The only light in the room is coming from a bulb fit in an open cage attached to a handle that hangs from the ceiling. I breathe in and notice that apart from the dust and body odor there happens to be a ubiquitous odor of hay, something I haven’t smelled since I lived in the Midwest. Our host is standing at

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