I've got a copy of THE NIGHT SEASON audio book version by Chelsea Cain! You want it, yes you do!
Here's your chance to get your paws on it:
Enter the impromptu writing contest that starts TONIGHT at 8pm and runs through Friday (4/15) at 8pm. (All times are Eastern Daylight Time aka Shark time)
Write a story using 100 words or fewer. Include these words in the story:
Bonus points if you use ONE hyphen to connect any two of the five words!
Post your story in the comments. Comments are closed till the contest starts.
Ready? Set? Write!
The parrot squawked, “I’m hungover!”
“You’d be dead, if I had my way.” Since Mac would kill me if I killed the bird, I punched the cage instead. The bird shrieked. New invention-punching bag parrot.
“Sam, leave JD alone.” Mac rearranged the junk on his desk, placing a moldy orange on top of a client file. “Veronica’s cheating on me, you know,” he said.
“Yeah. I’ve already solved the case.” He stood up and I noticed he was wearing his gunbelt. “I thought we were friends, Sam,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got my dignity to consider.”
The junk-punch hurt.
His dignity, worse.
He was hungover. No, past that. Blind from a headache, permeated by her perfume.
He hadn't meant those drunken words.
He was a gunslinger: no such thing as sorry.
Now he clawed his way out of the horse barn, into a God-cursed sun.
Today was another day.
He buckled his gunbelt and set off to find his horse.
Anything for a thrill(er)!
Ask any woman I've dated. I've never complained about a pat on the behind. Well, not since Mom's obstetrician slapped my first breath out of me.
But when the TSA agent started to frisk me, hungover with his warped sense of power, I figured it was time to speak up again. Unless I was getting a lullaby with the deal, he had no reason to explore my southern hemisphere.
"It's not a gunbelt, for heaven's sake!"
He didn't seem to care about my dignity, so I amended the traveler's battle cry and delivered a punch to his own junk.
There was a gunbelt on the bed; the leather bedazzled to the point where the gun holstered inside no longer held any of its original bad-ass dignity. My boyfriend had tried to tell me something last night. I was so hungover that the details were fuzzy now, but I vaguely recalled giving him a junk-punch when he strapped the thing on. Just a reflex—guns scare me. Or maybe it was Miss Deputy Drag’s business card sticking out of the gun pocket. Can’t remember. Stupid gin.
No more cowboys, that’s what I told myself. Then this manly ray of sunshine sauntered in with all his teeth, and I turned into mush faster than squash left in the summer sun.
He must have been hungover, or still drunk, his gunbelt barely covered his hairy man-junk. Where was his dignity? Or his pants?
I pushed my skirts down over my thighs.
I lifted the brim of his hat and looked into his blood-shot eyes. “If you don’t leave now, my husband is sure to catch us and administer a punch I reckon your offspring will feel.”
This is just for fun, isn't really a story, and is not for the prize.
This is the story of an amazing, selfless girl, whose super power was the dignity-punch. She was a super heroine, and she took pride in helping people regain their dignity, whether they were caught scratching their junk, or were hungover on their wedding day. Her favorite piece of her super heroine outfit was her stylish gunbelt, although it was useless, because who needs a gun and bullets when you’ve got the dignity-punch? So a squirt gun resides in it instead. In case she gets thirsty.
“This is pure, unadulterated junk.” The email was a punch to the solar plexus, an assault on the remaining shreds of her dignity – if copywriters indeed had any. The missive festering in her in-box was from a hungover editor who shouldn’t have been working on Sunday to begin with. Who knew that hawking celebrity perfumes would be so demeaning? She studied the keyboard, hands poised over her hips as though she wore a gunbelt. She had to make deadline, or the IRS would not be pleased.
It was almost over. I let my gunbelt fall to the floor and watched the last of my dignity dribble down the drain.
My ears still rang from the shrieks of my victims, my shirt forever stained a familiar crimson red. I dried my hands and looked in the mirror over the sink. Bloodshot eyes looked back. I rubbed gritty junk from the corners, wanting to sleep, wondering how hungover I’d be from the sugar, unsure how I would survive the second cake-and-punch-filled hour of my toddler son’s birthday party.
I refilled my bubble guns and headed back downstairs.
“Someone should tell him.” I eyed the punch suspiciously. “He’s going to be so hungover tomorrow.”
Mr. Matthews adjusted his junk and leaned heavily on Vicki, the office skank. At some point he had lost his pants, probably when he disappeared into the storage room with the Vicki.
The tacky cowboy costume he wore to the office Halloween party was bad enough, but the gunbelt over his tighty-whities was enough to make me reconsider drinking. Permanently.
“He’s our boss. At least let him have his dignity.”
But his dignity was irretrievable, like his pants.
Dignity Punch was drunk. Well, she wasn't drunk anymore so much as she was hungover. Gads that had been one hellova bachelorette party. Seeing Mimi on the table dancing to Ginger's dulcet karaoke tones still sent chills down her spine. She had never known Gloria Estefan to be quite that terrifying. What the heck had been the deal with all that gunbelt junk? She couldn't remember.
Oh wait, she could. Damn! She worked at the Sheriff's Department. And now she'd never be able to look Andy in the eye on Monday.
Then again, that might not be so bad.
They called it a dignity-gunbelt. Really, it’s a chastity belt. I won the damn thing at a Jonah Hex convention. It’s adorned with a silver buckle engraved with the Virgin Mary. Jonah’s mother was a prostitute. I wore the belt to an after party and got drunk on hunch punch. At my hotel room, I asked a guy to show me his junk. When he reached for mine, that buckle burned his hand. No kidding. I’m not even hungover telling you this. Ever since, whenever I go out, I put it on. I don’t mean to. It’s just there.
Jesse froze as the man’s full weight ground against her hips and his groping fingers found her buttocks. He was hungover from the cheap junk he’d guzzled down before he’d left the bar and there was no fending him off. But when his hand came up against something cold and hard, the man paused and backed off like a coon caught in a cabbage patch.
Jesse rolled out from under him and delivered a don’t-mess-with-me punch to the man’s pockmarked nose. She strode off clutching the heavy bronze buckle at her waist. It never failed. She’d preserved her gunbelt-dignity again.
This is my hungover- dignity, what’s left after a night of finding out that my junk isn’t The Junk.
“Hey, it happens to a lot of you guys.”
I put my gunbelt back on, then punch my feet into my black Guccis. “Do do me a favor though.”
“When you tell this story to your girlfriends, can I be the one who killed the bad guy? Because otherwise, the other superheroes are going to talk.”
And she nods, all serious, protecting my remaining pride like she did my life last night. Even as room overflows with her newfound aplomb.
Pepe was born without any feeling in his testicles; he was also a raging alcoholic and an avid gun collector. In 1993, he founded the Circo Mexicano Loco where he was renowned for funneling tequila and getting smacked in the balls for twenty pesos a pop. When he wasn’t too hungover, or in the medic’s tent from a bad junk-punch, he wandered the markets of Cuernavaca looking for a new toy to add to his gunbelt. His collection of firearms was his way of maintaining a sense of dignity and formidability amidst the drunken testicle-smashing madness that was life.
Drogan stood on the bowsprit. Cool sea-spray bit into his eyes and clawed at his rising consciousness. He tucked his junk back into bloodied trousers and fought to shore his hungover-dignity. A blur of half-lit images -- too much rum, too little rations -- of the girl.
Where had she come from? Young, beautiful, seducing him. Fingers traced stinging wounds on his bare chest, clearing his memory. He'd fumbled at his gunbelt, but she'd tossed his pistol away. A wild punch had sent her reeling back, no longer young or beautiful, a sea-hag. At that, memory failed him.
"You have no dignity. You drank that punch, now you're hungover and last night you had your junk hanging out over your gun belt. Way to go, slick."
"Maybe I should start seeing my shrink again."
"It's a thought."
I wouldn’t normally throw a hungover-punch. But I woke up and she was gone. Well, gone from my bed. I stumbled downstairs and opened the cabinet, grasping for something to dull the throbbing. And I see her on the couch with my brother. I don’t know what’s worse – his junk hanging out or her panties on the floor next to our mother’s pile of books.
“Selah, where is your dignity?” I shouted, startling them both awake.
She rolled away. I didn’t intend to, but I found my fist connecting with his face.
“You’re lucky I’m not wearing my gunbelt, asshole.”
Forsaking my dignity I reached past my gunbelt and adjusted my junk. Too many trips to the punch bowl last night had left me hungover and hurting.
But I had a job to do.
I looked to Larry who adjusted his Stetson.
“Is this the place?”
He nodded and turned the handle. We burst in, pulling our tools from our holsters.
A circle of stunned men stared at us.
“Uh,” said one, “I'm pretty sure we ordered the cowgirls. And you're certainly not putting that thing in me.
She caught me like junk on the line of an Atlantic City fisherman. Two-hundred pounds of purest prostitutional dignity.
I stumbled to the sticky bar, knees locked and crackling. Every step socked those joints with a punch like Last Call.
"You're sweatin', soldier," she said, and I knew she hadn't been hungover since the first time she'd stolen the whiskey from behind her mother's toilet tank.
"Not a soldier," I croaked, the juice gone from my throat. "Gunbelt's just for the tourists."
She studied the beaten strap, then her lips cracked open onto ivory teeth. "So am I," she said.
-M the Intern, who did this for fun
Her dignity hungover her gunbelt like no agent I'd met before.
"What'd'ya want from the Shark, bitch?" She slurped back her rum punch.
"Uh.. Um, could you-" I stammered, as I held out a few printed pages.
"What?!? A critique?"
She grabbed my junk and squeezed. Hard.
"Thank you!" I squeaked.
"Excuse me," said the cowboy, "I gotta go powder my junk."
"Front or back?" asked the girl, sitting on the bed next to him.
"I don't need to answer that," he said, "I still have my dignity."
Ha, he thought, as if he still had his dignity like some hungover memory from a simpler time.
The gunbelt hung loosely at his hips as he stood up.
Too loose, she thought.
"I could punch a new hole in that thing for you," she said, "tighten you right up."
"One hole is enough," the cowboy said, "I gotta go."
Betty barely mustered enough dignity to hold her hair aside before bowing to the porcelain master in the traditional hangover penance. When she finished, she flicked the handle and wondered what had happened the night before.
She still had a few memories, snippets to try to piece together. At least she remembered that she’d gotten him back. One solid junk-punch had him on the floor, squealing like a newborn.
She chuckled, but the smell of leather made her stomach threaten to upset again.
She looked toward her feet. Now she just had to figure out where the gunbelt came from.
The mountainous case report was stuck to his face as he lifted his head from the junk on the dilapidated desk. His dignity evaporated and he wasn’t sure if the stench was his clothes, his body, or the alcohol on his breath.
Despite his hungover fog, he reached down and felt the gunbelt around his waist and was instantly reminded of his duty.
And, as the mental fog dissipated, the answer showed itself. With a quick punch of adrenaline, he got up and rushed to the station. The answer had been there all along.
The garage-door-barely-opened- first- blue-haired-yard-sale shopper scurries up the driveway, zeroes in on her find, and inquires, “What's with the gunbelt, Honey?”
Annoyed by the presence of this shopper prior to start time, the hungover homeowner mumbles, “A fluke purchase after a late night of junk-punch drinking . . ..”
“It belonged to the Duke, you say?”
Frustrated, the homeowner inhales deeply and responds with purposeful enunciation and elevated volume, “No, Ma’am . . . a buck for the 'fluke?!'”
The elderly woman's back straightened, “I got my dignity, but the Duke is the Duke!”
I stared, flabbergasted by the two hungover idiots trying to prop themselves up against a stall door. “You named a race horse Punch-Junk. You’ve got to be kidding.”
“It was our trainer’s idea after we won the bidding war.” He snickered. “Sort of a tie-breaker thing.”
I groaned. Bidding war? On a filly with a heritage more suited to pulling a cart. The four wheeled type.
“Bob wanted to call her Kiss My Gunbelt.”
“Better than your idea, Kiss my Tits.”
And now I understood the measure of dignity that came with the name Punch-Junk.
Dusty wanted to say it was his dignity that hurt most, but the bullet in his arm really packed a punch. The huddled mass of yellow-bellied dog beneath the wagon whined like a hungover junk trader. Dusty tried a reassuring smile, but the pain shot through him like an express train.
“Please Reg, let him go,” Clara begged. She was hanging off his gunbelt, her skirts spread around her in the dust like a cactus flower.
Dusty saw the contemptuous look, the slick spit hitting the dirt, the barrel of the gun.
She slammed the pistol on the counter. Hungover or not, bar patrons scattered in all directions. I dove under a table. I had no idea if the pistol was loaded. I didn’t need a punch in the face, much less a bullet, to find out for real. I had seen her gunbelt, its rawhide dignity testifying that this was a woman to be taken seriously. I was prepared to stay on that raw concrete floor coated with spilled tequila and beer where a condom and pair of panties—the junk of one-night stands—stared me in the eye.
At the policeman’s ball they served something called hangover-punch. Stuff was guaranteed to knock you on your ass and steal your dignity faster than a blond could steal your heart. Nobody told me what was in it until after I had a glass or three. Next thing I know—and the last thing I remember—I’m dancing on a table wearing nothing but a gunbelt, my junk out there for everyone to see.
My partner tells me the commissioner’s wife had a front row seat. So much for making detective this year.
I was hungover on the morning of the second zombie werewolf attack.
We thought we had killed them all the night before, so we abandoned our dignity and celebrated by getting shitfaced at the First Baptist Church. In our defense, it was the only building in town that had withstood the first attack, and Billy Ray carried liquor everywhere.
He mixed his moonshine into the punch intended for Carrie's baby shower and poured the evil junk into dixie cups for everyone.
I dropped my bloody gunbelt, for what I thought would be the last time, and I drank.
“I think you mean punch drunk.” We’d had rum combos the night before. “Why?”
“He’s so hungover, his dignity’s tied to his gumbelt.”
I looked. “Dingbat. You mean he’s got the dinghy hooked to his gunbelt.” My sister’s boyfriend did indeed have his belt hooked to the yellow boat.
“Whatever. Hey, watch this.” Julie exited stage right. A few seconds later I heard two angry roars, first the boat, then the man. Julie returned, smiling.
“So when are you going to dump him?” I asked.
She watched him chase his runaway jeans. “I think I just did.”
Some people may argue that the nation is hungover after drinking the Obama punch in 2008. May I propose that their gunbelts are too tight? The junk that the conservative media is feeding the masses fails to acknowledge the dignity the President has managed to preserve, while gracefully balancing both national and global crisis. More dignity-punch for me please Mr. President!
Sure, take the gun (and my daddy’s gunbelt, bastards). Junk-punch me. Dump me in a dry riverbed screaming with heat and flies, me feeling like I’m hungover and halfway to dead. I get that. Nothing personal.
But naked? Oh hell no. Can’t put a price on dignity.
Or maybe you can. And soon as I crawl out of this ditch and find some damn pants, they’re gonna learn mine.
The pirates boarded around noon.
Carson was still drunk. “Hair-of-the-dog hungover-junk,” as Marilyn would have sniffed.
Their five solemn, inscrutable faces had, he admitted, a roguish dignity. He wondered if they spoke English.
“Why you choose this sailboat?” he asked. “No big ship. No treasure.” He patted his stomach, trim despite the year’s excesses. “And no gunbelt.”
They moved like scimitars along the deck. Teeth all a brilliant white.
He’d never planned last words. See you in hell? Or, Sayonara, fickle world?
Carson moved to punch the nearest one. “Long live the King of the Sea,” he said.
Yeah, punching my junk...yeah, dignity until she walks in asking if I'm hungover again. I yell, "Bitch, gonna get the gunbelt!" Yeah, that's mom wondering if I'm up. What's for breakfast?
She faced him, gunbelt hung over her hips, fingers opening and closing in a mesmerizing dance. His knees trembled and he heard the roar of the crowd no more. His world narrowed to tapered fingers playing a scale he felt with every staccato beat of his heart. Helpless, he watited for her to make a move. Why had he called her act junk? He’d lost the pig-riding race, punched dignity in the mouth and now stood, in a cow suit with a quarter suspended between his horns, awaiting her fabled “nailgun-through-the-eye” trick. Praying they’d meant the quarter’s eye, not his.
I knew trouble was beatin' at my door the second Billy showed up non-hungover and spittin' sunflower seeds, that gawd-awful ring tucked into his rodeo-roughed up hand. I'm not gonna say I'm a diamond snob or nothin', but that ring wasn't even a QVC zirconia--that I'da accepted. A girl's gotta have some junk-dignity.
"You gotta be kiddin'." I gave him a swift punch above his gunbelt in his non-existent gut.
"Ma'am, I believe I am," he drawled and tipped his cowboy hat. Tied to the brim was a Dolly Parton-worthy sparkler.
As the sun came crashing through his bedroom curtain, a feeling of dread washed over his body as he dragged himself out of bed. Pulling his uniform on he briefly contemplated the dignity-punch he felt each time he did so. Stumbling around the room he kicked junk around looking for his keys, shoes and gunbelt. Images of shot glasses and darts flashed in his head as he stepped outside - squinting at the sun he thought to himself “what a day to be hungover”. Sliding into his squad car he picked up the radio and checked in with dispatch.
The gunbelt lolled over my footboard like a hungover cowboy on a hitching post. My revolver was gone. Piece of junk though it was, having it swiped by that saucy saloon chit was a dignity-punch even my low standard couldn’t abide. I looked at the nightstand. There, sparking back sunlight like panned gold, was one last drop of salvation. I tipped it into my mouth, and it erased the sour embarrassment on my tongue. There was a silver lining: the vixen made off with the gun that killed the sheriff. No space-station deputy would ever get my prints.
The junk helicopter arrived one morning and swept my people away. The few that returned told stories of hard metal machines and snowy pictures. Diffuse marks meant trouble; a positive pleural punch biopsy meant big trouble.
The ship was a big one. My people huddled together on the open decks, too afraid to venture into the belly. Hungover military men wore gunbelts and surgical masks. They washed their hands and kept their distance.
At the sanatoriums, nurses gathered and burned our skins.
Mother hand-stitched my parka and mukluks, too. It’s tradition.
Tuberculosis took away our dignity.
A lurch in the brawl to reach the bar.
"Assault my dignity?" she says. Fists fly, police are called.
She is wound up and over caffeinated. Her kicks drop assailants; elbows into stomachs; knees into groins. A policeman tries to obstruct her and gets a junk-punch below the gunbelt, keels over and vomits on the dirty floor. His partner draws and fires, lightning runs down twin wires and she is thrown over backwards.
Hungover and jittery from withdrawal and twenty-thousand volts into the breastbone. She looks up. "You're a public defender?" she asks. "Do you do it, like, after school?"
Okay, so I’m hoping this dignity junk is overrated. I’ll admit the YouTube video isn’t all that flattering. The black leather gunbelt does little to hide the fact I was in fact au naturale at some point last evening. I’m pretty certain that the little pouch of kiddy punch in the slot where the gun should have been doesn’t contain anything under eighty proof, especially since hungover doesn’t begin to describe my condition. All in all, it appears we had a memorable reception. Now, if I could only locate the groom…
(second entry - just for fun - 47 words - key words in order)
It's jealous junk that gets you drunk
in a restless reverie.
Breathe slow and deep, and try to keep
that desperate dignity.
In a hungover haze of gunbelt grays,
you strain and try see,
That hazardous hunch, that packs a punch,
and just might set you free.
[Apologies ahead of time; 98 words]
Liz sat bolt upright on the junk heap, a pathetic parody of dignity. “Now, now,” I told her gently, “don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you.”
The delicate lines of bruises along her neck and arms spoke otherwise, and there was a real shiner on her cheekbone. I hadn’t meant to punch her that hard, but I’d been hungover. Besides, she’d been practically begging for it, wearing that short skirt, teasing me.
“What are you going to do to me?” she whispered, eyeing my gunbelt. “Shoot me?”
“I might,” I said. “But by then, you’ll want me to.”
My name’s Dignity but that doesn’t mean I got any. Nothing good comes from killing a person if you ask me. But Ron didn’t ask me. He just reached for his gunbelt, the one he wore since the day we met. That junk of a day is stuck inside my head like a burr, like the stink stuck to Ron’s hungover-breath, sucking the air out of me like the punch punch punch of his hand. Truth is, dignity ain’t nothing but a name, if all people see when they look at you is the kid whose daddy killed her mama.
Dignity was known for three things, her gunbelt, love for junk food and her famous Dignity-punch.
She enters Longhorn Saloon. Victor her lover for six months sat at the bar with an unknown chic, very beautiful - more than Dignity she thought.
Not Causing a scene, Dignity pretend she didn't know Victor; instead she slams shot after shot of Tequila.
In closing hours, Dignity shown signs the Tequila had taken over. Victor steps down from the bar, approaching Dignity with chic in hand.
"Working on a hangover?" Victor asked.
"Fuck no! My Dignity punch," she says and punches Victor.
“Wheooo, I’m punch-junk. I mean, spunk-drunk. Damn, that’s not right. Um…pissed.”
“Oh for God’s sake Mike, you can’t even speak properly. How many have you had?”
“It’s all right for you, Miss Look-At-My-Shiny-New-Gumboot-Don’t-You-Wish-You-Had-One-Of-Those. You’re not gonna be hungover in the morning.”
“It’s a ‘gunbelt,’ not a ‘gumboot,’ you numbskull. And I do wish you had one. It might make you grow up and stop drinking your dignity all day long.”
“That’s funny. For a minute I thought you were talking, but all I can hear is ‘Blah, blah, blah.’”
“Mike, I can’t… I don’t want… Look, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
There is no dignity in being a drunken lout. When I was less of a hungover waste of a man, I worked as a part-time guard for people's crap. Why have men guard your junk? Nobody wants it. That's why it's in a storage locker! It's where I saw my first gunbelt, however, which is why I am here now. I thought coming out West would be romantic. Wrong! Yesterday, after binging, I slapped a dog. Weird stares followed me home after that. Jesus, no more rotgut. Maybe I'll take up fruit punch instead.
He ran his fingers over the gunbelt, hating how much his hands resembled the cracked leather. How can she say this stuff is junk? It was 45 years of their life. The punch bowl from their wedding, his brother’s first bicycle. He kept stuff, so what? She didn’t used to think it was so bad, it was sentimental; now he was a hoarder. There were worse things. He’d never gone through a mid-life crisis, never come home hungover, he still had dignity. He sighed as he heard her calling him. He lurched to his feet and squeezed past his piles.
Roger dreamed of an old west shootout, able to end this duel with a single trigger pull. Sadly, fists are the only weapons on a boxer’s gunbelt. His head throbbed more from last night’s tequila than today’s menacing blows. Who shows up hungover to a fight? Each jab and sway was like a hammer forged of nausea. He’d rather endure a dreaded junk-punch than another shot to his pounding head. Hell, a groin shot might let him bow out with some dignity; knocked down by an illegal hit instead of a lousy performance. If only he wasn’t wearing a cup.
As I blinked away the fog of sleep, I saw What's-his-name wearing my gunbelt, his junk at morning salute. Almost laughed, but then felt Colt pressed to my head. Not the first time that whiskey punch got me hungover a horse with my ass in the air, dignity in the mud.
Too bad, I'd hoped to leave this town without killing anybody.
She rose from the ketchup-stained carpet by a series of escalating efforts: elbows, hands, knees — vertical! Sunday morning. No, argued her fuchsia BudgetChrono wristwatch: Sunday afternoon.
Hungover from an ill-advised 3 a.m. experiment with absinthe, Commodore Platypus rum, and an industrial-grade pomegranate processor, she wobbled kitchenward, seeking the cappuccino machine and dignity, in that order. She was not seeking Damien, who crossed the faux tile out of nowhere with gunbelt swagger.
"It's not what you think," he purred. She cracked her knuckles, preparing to deploy a shaky but enthusiastic brand of punch-junk love.
He cracked open crusty lashes. He lay naked, securely tied to the bedposts. He stretched his jaw, not just cotton mouthed, but tumbleweed-rolling-across-the-desert mouthed, with a side of raunch. His stomach gurgled, threatening to let loose. Horses galloped on his temples. All results of the mystery punch.
The sweet saloon siren warned him he’d be junk-hungover, but he wanted to forget the dead. The streets littered from his accursed accurate reflexes of self defense.
His fuzzy vision cleared enough to make out the empty gunbelt strewn on the doorknob. She’d left him to wallow, taking his weapon and his dignity.
Dignity was hard to maintain when waking up on the rug in front of a stranger’s fireplace hungover, bruised, and wearing nothing but a toy gunbelt and a cowboy hat.
“What was in that junk-punch last night?” she tried to focus on the good-looking man beside her.
At least he was no better off, wearing a really cheesy feather headdress, a sheepish grin, and what appeared to be navy blue mascara streaks across his cheeks. Complete with wand marks.
“I didn’t do it. But,” his gaze ran up and down her body,”I think I’m glad somebody did.”
Wyatt fastened the gunbelt around his waist, low enough for the leather to graze his junk. An "Urp" ejaculated from his mouth. "Damn, hungover again. How'm I gonna face the Shark Gang in this condition?"
He wobbled down the rickety stairs to the street, gathering bits of his lost dignity as memories of last night in Miss Janet's saloon wormed their way back into his consciousness.
Spying the huge silver bowl perched on the bar, cups strewn around it, Wyatt groaned. "Punch! Even worse."
The door creaked.
A black hat appeared.
Wyatt reached for his gun. Not there. D'Oh!
Ha. I’m grounded for missing curfew. What a load of bull.
The only reason he even realized I was late was because I tripped over his junk-gunbelt-display. He was so punch-drunk, that he left it in the middle of the kitchen.
I bet he was showing it off to his looser poker buddies. I hope he’s extra hungover tomorrow. I’m planning the smelliest, greasiest breakfast possible and you can bet I'll be banging every pot and pan together as loudly as I can.
I wish my mom would suddenly get some dignity and self respect and kick him out already.
I unzipped my fly, hung my junk out the maw, knew I’d be punch-hungover tomorrow, but whatever those sorority girls were offering, I’d be a fool not to take it. Dude to my left did his reveal. All potatoes. Guy on my right unsnapped, offered a glimpse of what he was packing like a gangster revealing his gunbelt. He dropped trou. The girls gasped. I was finished, but hell if I didn’t have my pick of the second-tier chicks and a pink toilet to yack into. Dignity is overrated.
"You total piece of junk!"
I kicked the Jeep's front tire, then yelped. Damn it! The same toe I stubbed on the bedpost this morning. The Jeep only grinned, the steam leaking from under the hood and the gaps in its grill making it look like a toothless, hungover wino smoking a cigarette butt. I wanted to punch its lights out, but I'd have to wait until I had a job with heath insurance to pay for stitches.
I gathered up my dignity and my briefcase, smoothed down my suit jacket and skirt and cinched my purse strap across my chest like a gunbelt. If I wanted to get the job that would get me the paycheck that would get me a new car, I'd better start hoofing it.
The pastel twilight was not enough to calm Keri's nerves. As she hastened down the alley and toward her apartment, she heard herself laugh. She was shaken-up, but her dignity was intact. The junk-punch she had delivered to the drunken (and supposedly rich) man in the cowboy hat had not been well thought-out - but it had been effective.
Entering her backdoor, Keri sighed in relief. Hope I’m not hungover tomorrow, she thought amusedly to herself as she peeled off her jacket and gunbelt and placed them on the rack. Next time, I’ll come straight home after work.
“I’ll take that.”
I nodded sharply at the kid’s gunbelt, ignoring his astonishment. No one packs at Pearl’s. No exceptions.
Fishing for dignity, Baby-face sought his buckle. “These girls better be worth it.” His bravado was as cheap as the hunk of junk his rawhide belt sported, but I was too hungover to give him shit.
“Throw a punch, you’re a dead man. Miss Pearl don’t allow fighting.”
I watched him try to swagger into the lounge. What he was about to do had as much chance of making him a man as those stupid spurs.
I looked behind the out-of-tune piano Scratchy plays on Saturday nights. The five poker tables and clusters of chairs didn’t hide anything either.
Hungover, I felt every bobble of my head as a punch to my temple.
Some trapper’s junk sat in a corner. I nudged the furs with the toe of my boot. Nothing.
My gunbelt hung loser than usual. Nausea came easy this morning.
A peak behind the long bar revealed zilch.. Disgusted with myself from last night’s overindulgence of whiskey and women, I finally slumped on a stool.
“What are you looking for?” Scrathy asked.
Anna was sorting through junk to give to Goodwill, when she came across a little polka-dot bra she had worn in college. The bra of a young woman who drank without dignity. Who got both hungover and laid almost every weekend. Now, her bras had a back strap the size of a gunbelt, with rows of six hooks. The kind of bra lunch room ladies wore.
While she was standing there, her husband came in and grabbed her breasts from behind.
“The kids are busy playing Death Punch,” he kissed her neck, making her shiver.
Who needed polka-dot bras?
Just for fun, as short as I could get it:
She had planned to end up hungover, but along the way she lost her head, her dignity, her and her life, mostly in that order. Her gunbelt still lashed around luscious hips, she lay amidst discarded junk colored party-punch red by her own hot blood, now finally and permanently cooling.
14 words, is this still a story?
Hungover, her intended junk-punch hit my gunbelt instead and cost us both our dignity.
I washed my face in the toilet.
Bit of a junk-punch to the dignity, despite my roommate’s assurance that I completed this cleansing process before the puking began. Unfortunately, even she can’t tell me where the gunbelt on my bed came from. Or who the badge belongs to.
My hungover haze makes memories difficult to pin down. Mostly I’m getting a collage. A friend yelling “Uno Mas!” Dancing with some guy. Sirens in the distance – at least I think they’re sirens. Flashing lights. Definitely some running. Cool, refreshing water.
Toilet water and stolen police property. Damn Wharf Rat Wednesdays.
On Saturday morning I woke up hungover on the moon. Again. “At least they gave me the dignity of a space capsule this time,” I mumbled with green Koolaid-stained lips. Droplets from the spilled punch and vodka drifted in the air. I could feel my space junk floating in my boxers. A gunbelt spun slowly above the floor next to a thong. Bullet shells orbited the shiny bare buttocks of Scarlet, one of the strippers who kept shooting at my feet to make me dance faster. She was still asleep. I sighed and whispered. “It’s hard dancing in zero gravity.”
The junk slipped quietly between the shoulders of land into the inlet. At the tiller stood a slight stooped man, hair limp beneath a stained tri-cornered hat. Sunken hungover eyes glittered in the dancing light of the nighttime water. Moonlight gleamed from metal cartridges wedged into the gunbelt swathed from his shoulder. He felt the punch of the boat’s connection with the sandy ocean floor, and then waded quickly to shore. He straightened the loose fitting uniform that hung about him. Turning inland, head raised in long restrained dignity he began the last leg of his odyssey – home.
Barbie was so annoyed when she looked at herself in the mirror.
"I have no dignity wearing this cowgirl costume," she said as she was straightening her junk-gunbelt. "I should wear my tiara and go as a queen."
However, Dino, the love of her life, wanted them to match.
"It could be worse," she said. "I could be the rear end of a horse."
"I hope he remembers to keep me away from Ken's famous "hungover-punch. One cup of that and I will be a horse's ass."
The morning after is always the worst.
I looked at the clock. Crap. No time for a shower. I knew the moment I drank the Drunk-Punch, my dignity was down the toilet. Along with the remaining junk I consumed.
Rehearsal dinners weren’t supposed to leave you hungover the next day. What? Was I in a movie?
Stumbling from the bed, I kicked something. Looking down I couldn’t believe my eyes. A gunbelt? What happened last night? I vaguely remembered tassels, whips and maybe toy guns.
Being the maid of honor was swell.
My dignity is junk, like a torn gunbelt hungover a broken punch bowl. Last night sucked.
"Here. Hangover-punch. Hair of the dog and all that."
There's a sound like tearing paper when I pry open one eyelid to look at the bastard who did this to me. A friend yesterday and tomorrow, but not today. "Do I want to know what's in that junk?” Probably not, but I hadn't asked what was in the bowl last night, either. The first of many mistakes - and those the ones I can remember.
"OJ, your dignity, a few vitamins…"
I groan. It hurts. “I remember something about a gunbelt. She wasn’t a real cop, was she?”
So I’ve got junk in my trunk – that’s beautiful right? I work out girlfriend. I’m a big, beautiful black woman and I still have my dignity. But, he doesn’t like my boodalicious body and he damn sure don’t like the way I dress it. My jaw burns below the icepack I’m cradling gently. Bastard throws a powerful punch. As many times as I’ve been on the receiving end of that fist, I still can’t predict its arrival. Mostly because of the gin - Goddamn gin - my salvation. I eyed his worn gunbelt hanging loosely over his pressed trousers, grinning.
It was like a punch in the gut to wake up and see his gunbelt missing, which meant, his gun was missing.
He thought back to last night, wondered why he drank so much. He was hungover, and judging by how badly, there was no way he left that saloon with any dignity whatsoever.
“David!” He called as he oozed out of bed. “Have you seen my gunbelt?”
But there was no response.
He made his way into the living room and saw the gunbelt on the chair. Then he saw his revolver on the floor, and David, dead.
Title: Stan. The Man?
There once was a girl named Samantha Scrunch.
A fine, fair maiden was she.
Gunbelt in hand
She went looking for Stan
The prick who stole her dignity.
She found him hungover
Atop Glenda Grover
Passed out mid-copulation.
She yanked the bastard off
Dazed, he started to scoff
And the two finished him with a double junk-punch.
Square in his – occupation.
I left my dignity at the door -- a gunbelt that Rosalita and Janet clung to with their wooden legs. The maitre d’ was an asshole with a mustache. He called me a simpleton without pants. I checked. Sure enough, junk.
Offensive comments don’t bother me much, but the French do. As that peckerwood dangled there, hung over the balcony like a punch-drunk worm, I asked him to give me back my bullets. I wrote a song about it a year later.
It took a while before my wife forgave me. The wedding photos came out beautifully.
Peter stumbled in to the kitchen. It was obvious he fell off the wagon. His collar was ripped, his eyes were swollen and his hair was a mess. I glanced at his gunbelt and was relieved to see it was empty. I could take a punch, but a bullet is a whole different story. He didn’t care that his dignity was stripped. My father was right. He needs his junk more than he needs me. It was then that I knew I had to give him up. He was my addiction. Loving him was like living with a constant hangover.
They’d stomped on my junk and then stuffed me in some trunk. And now I was writhing without dignity, my gunbelt wrapped around my ankles. Lotta good my pistol had done me. I hadn’t had time to unholster it. I hadn’t even seen the assailants, seeing as how I’d been doing the punch-hungover shuffle as I made my way to the Night Train depot.
“You’re pathetic,” she sobbed.
She’s right of course. It’s impossible to keep your dignity when you’re so hungover that you’ve thrown up on your boots.
“He’s been downstairs scaring the girls and running off customers.”
I can’t even stand to look up -- her quivering voice feels like a punch to the gut.
“Lefty, if you don’t do something quick, he’s gonna drink up all the whiskey and start beating on the girls!”
“Whiskey?” That’s too far. “Hand me my gun!”
“You don’t want your gunbelt?”
“No. This ain’t gonna be no showdown. This is gonna be a kill’n!”
Jake wrapped his arms around Tally, rested his chin on her head and said, “Whatever I said, I’m sorry. You know, sometimes I feel hungover just being around you. I get fuzzy and say junk I don’t mean.”
“You mean like last night when you wouldn’t eat dinner at my sister’s? You embarrassed me in front of my whole family.”
“Is that why you’re upset? Yeah, I guess I kinda sounded like an ass, but we’d both have been embarrassed if I’d lost my dignity and my cookies.”
“You said my sister’s gumbo smelled like ‘gunbelt-punch’, Jake! That was dignified?”
Hungover and sprawled out on the couch, Elisse took a groggy assessment of her situation. She still held a plastic tumbler in one hand, and although she didn’t remember what she’d been drinking the night before, punch-junk sediment at the bottom of the cup indicated that it was something fruity.
What little fragment of dignity she thought she had left suddenly disappeared when she noticed the fuzzy handcuff on her other wrist and the faux gunbelt on the floor. The haze of last night’s escapades came into focus, and she groaned with remorse.
Arxhan was more than hungover as he reached for his gunbelt. Vague memories ebbed to and from his conscious as his fingers twitched the empty space where his glock 19 usually nestled.
He groaned, pained by the dull throbbing in his temples. Miscellaneous junk and drinking paraphernalia lay scattered about him as he lay slumped in the corner. Dignity had apparently long abandoned him, leaving him to his own devices.
His fist bled copiously. He briefly hoped he hadn't killed something as he stared curiously at his hand.
"Who the hell did I punch?" he groaned.
“Four friggin’ days sortin’ through this junk!”
Craig’s scowl deepens. He struggles to steady himself, shaking less from being hungover and more from being one box of memories from an emotional punch-drunk. He recoils emerging from the attic as daylight burns his eyes.
The floral stench sends him wheezing, punctuated by the hack of his smoker’s cough. He musters a shred of dignity to shuffle forward. Slipping the rumpled card under the man’s gunbelt, and giving a squeeze to the satin lining, Craig takes his seat in the front row.
“Four friggin’ days but I found it for him, dammit.”
Junk growled at me when I attached the ‘gunbelt’ lead to his spiked collar.
The rottweiler was hungover.
He got into the punch when Sherleen took the table down with her the night before.
Most dogs did resemble their owners, but Junk was an exception. Even with a ridiculous lead and collar, he had dignity.
Gunbelt Punch hated his name for several reasons. All of which evaded him as he stumbled, hungover from the tavern.
He hadn't expected to find anyone alive.
He never did, but at least the alcohol and junk food supply was still going strong.
There was no dignity to mankind anymore, not since the dead walked amongst the living.
They weren't an unpleasant bunch, but Gunbelt had always been especially opposed to cannibalism.
Hungover as I was, the dim lights in the cowboy museum were painless. The memory of last night’s loss of dignity made me wince anyway. “Surprised to see you,” he smirked. “Assumed Janie’s junk-punch had taken you out.”
He was staring intently at an ornate gunbelt. Was he so embarrassed by what happened at the party that he couldn’t look at me? I grimaced. “That punch was a killer. What on Earth does she put in it?”
“Junk,” he said, finally looking up at me, and his eyes reminded me why I had dragged myself there. I still loved him.
“You’ll get him next time.”
He wished she’d said “I told you so.” It’d hurt his dignity less.
He took the icepack she offered and grimaced. He felt punch-drunk. No, punch-hungover. The kid had handed him his ass--much longer and he'd have cried
"Uncle!" just to get him to stop. Christ, he was too old for this shit. He opened his desk drawer, dropping his gunbelt in the junk next to his PI license,and made a decision.
“No, Kiddo,” he patted his daughter –Partner!-- on the hand.
“You’ll get him next time.”
The cowboy swung, connecting above the sheriff’s gunbelt then stumbled backwards onto his ass.
The sheriff barely budged.
All dignity was erased from the cowpoke’s hungover face as he looked with chagrin up to the sheriff.
The sheriff’s smile was as smooth as sloe gin. “Son, you call that any kinda powerhouse blow?”
The saloon’s patrons roared their laughter.
But then, like a rattlesnake’s strike, the cowpoke slammed a fist into the sheriff’s groin.
The crowd felt his pain and ‘oohed’ in sympathy.
The move inspired the saloon’s new drink: the ‘Junk-Punch.’
Which was duly noted on the cowpoke’s tombstone.
The agent motioned him into a tiny room. "You've been chosen randomly for a strip search. Anything I should know about before we begin?"
A bolt of pain shot through his head, making him wince. He hated trick questions as much as he hated his current punch-hungover state. No matter how he answered, she'd still want to see his junk.
"Okay, then, drop 'em." She hitched up her gunbelt and leaned against the door, enjoying his discomfort.
As he unbuckled his pants, he longed for the days when he could hop on a plane with his dignity intact.
“Feelin’ punchy, doll?” She asked as he staggered across the deck of the junk, wobbling like a hungover elephant on a unicycle. She nervously tugged a single-shot pistol from her cleavage as he approached. “I’d skedaddle if’n I were you, babycakes. The beatin’ was a warnin’.”
Dignity and intelligence had never been his strong suits. He limped toward her, grit-toothed and naked, fueled only by angry obstinacy. One ballistic impact later, he grunted.
“Ever heard of a gunbelt?” he muttered as he dropped to his knees, watching from an ever-increasing distance as a familiar red warmth spread across his chest.
Larren woke up with a hungover-punch buzzing his head. He didn’t know where he was, or why there was so much junk around him. Worse: there was no signal of his gunbelt. It was his last shred of dignity, the key of who he was. He needed it.
A sassy-dressed girl in the other side of the room stared him with a sparkle of malice in her eyes. She waived his gunbelt. “Are you looking for this, darling?” He jumped to her and tried to reach it, but she vanished. “Dang, why won’t she leave me in peace?”
Jack swayed like a hungover sailor on the deck of the Chinese Junk that plied the waters of the Yangtze River. He could feel the barrel of his Glock still radiating heat through the gunbelt strapped across his chest.
This assignment was meant to catapult his aspirations, instead the last 24 hours was more of a death-knell his career and a dignity-punch to his pride in the CIA.
He was confused and conflicted because the woman he just saved was not only the most beautiful woman he ever encountered, but also, the greatest threat to the country he just betrayed.
"That's how they talk in Westerns!!" the author shrieked, spittle flying at the editor. They lay in a heap on the editor's floor with two fistfuls of the editor's shirt wedged in the author's fists.
The editor overcame his shock. "'Gunbelt' isn't a single word! Neither is 'hungover!' I just broke them up!!"
The author’s face twisted. "If I had any dignity left, I'd stab you with your red pen!"
Security arrived and extricated the editor from the author's grasp. As the guards led the author away, the editor delivered a parting blow: "And it's ‘punch-DRUNK,’ not ‘punch-junk,’ you moron."
Tarn awoke hungover and bloody somewhere over the Cascades. Dizzy, he opened one eye and caught sight of his empty gunbelt hanging the captain’s door. Fists clenched over the loss.
Brown’s laugh rang over the engine noise. “Morning, sleepyhead.”
He rolled towards the right, grabbed the only parachute pack in sight and prayed the fucker wasn’t empty.
“Hey! What are you-?”
He kneed Mr. Brown in the junk and stood poised by the open door. His only option was to punch out.
Hell, he’d lost so much dignity already, it hardly mattered if he pissed himself on the way down.
She fires up a cigarette and leans back. “How bad?”
“They gonna arrest me?”
I clear aside the junk on my desk – briefs, motions, unpaid bills – and slide the incident report toward her. “Probably.”
She inches forward. I gaze at her while she reads.
“I wasn’t hungover,” she finally says. “Tipsy, but not hungover. I do have some dignity.”
“Did you punch him?”
“Pistol-whipped him. And the .45 was in a toolbelt, not a gunbelt.”
“So you’ll represent me?” She peers at me through a curl of smoke.
I sigh again, and surprise myself by saying, “Yes.”
“What happened to your dignity?”
I cracked one eye and saw Maggie, home early from a business trip. I was hungover, and in no mood for another fight.
“Morning, sweetie,” I said. I tried to roll over, until I realized my hands were cuffed to the bed.
Maggie fished the keys from my gunbelt and stared at me for a long time. Then, without unlocking the cuffs, she turned and left.
I looked down and felt gut-punched -- no, junk-punched. I wore nothing but a tiny lace g-string, a souvenir of a wild night I couldn’t remember, but wouldn’t soon forget.
"Did you just threaten to punch me in the junk?" Cord asked, amused. Unlike me, he didn’t seem the least bit hungover.
"Grab your gunbelt and let’s go,” I snapped. “We're late."
He laughed, a sexy, infuriating sound. “And whose fault is that, Kate?”
I held his gaze, determined to salvage my dignity--although after what happened last night, there wasn’t much left. “You’re due on Deck 3,” I said coolly. “And if I were you, I wouldn’t keep your superior officer waiting.”
Cord’s dark eyes flashed. “Aye, Commander.” His voice was hard. “See you on Deck 3.”
Thanks for the fun contest!
“Next,” I ordered. “Arms out, legs spread.”
The next passenger stepped into the scanner, assumed the position, and I bit back a groan. A beer belly large enough for Jon, Kate, plus the eight kids hung over his belt, an old gunbelt from the looks of it.
“Remove the belt.” Fuck dignity. TSA doesn’t need to say ‘please’.
Eyes defiant, he debated while I snapped my latex gloves in anticipation. He finally tossed the belt in the bin, resumed scan position.
My eyes popped. Whoa. Is that real?
“Hey! You just punched my junk!”
Readers, it WAS real.
Oscar Bertrand knew he had lost all his dignity, but he had no idea a single punch would end his life.
Wearing leather chaps, a diamond-studded gunbelt, and a silver cowboy hat, Oscar popped out of a cake and began dancing for a dozen already hungover 30-somethings. Wearing a t-shirt declaring “Bruno Put a Ring on It!” the bachelorette screamed with wild delight and tried to reach for his junk.
The door burst open. In a flash, a red-faced man snatched the lady and took a swing at Oscar, who ducked but fell over, slamming his head into the floor.
I was hungover. Hell, I might have still been drunk. That rum sure packed a punch. Or maybe it was the punch, packed with rum. Maybe that's where the term "punch-drunk" comes from. Maybe I shouldn’t be so focused on etymology or what caused my current state, but rather the current state itself. What exactly was I doing wearing a nun's habit (my "junk" flapping in the breeze) and a gunbelt, strapped to the hood of an Isuzu Trooper doing 100 miles per hour over the I-480 bridge?
In situations like these, it’s a challenge to maintain one's dignity.
The man stood up, groaning, and scratched his junk. Clad in slightly soggy tighty whities and an empty gunbelt he made his way across the shag carpeting onto the dirty linoleum of the kitchen.
The sheriff looked out the grimy sliding glass door of the double-wide mobile home and blinked through bleary, bloodshot eyes.
It was more than just a hangover. Looking around the meth shack, surveying the result of roughly 36 hours binging on glass, was a dignity-punch of epic proportions. He thought he was past this.
Well, he thought, the only way past this is to do God's work.
Overheard in the locker room at the Y:
“Jeez, Jeff. They don’t call it a ‘banana hammock’ anymore. Get with it.”
“Gunbelt? Plum smuggler? Hungover slug hugger?”
The sound of a hand slapping skin, possibly a forehead, then muttering: “Please stop.”
“Jewel bag? Egg snuggler? Junk bra?”
“It’s very close to being a punch-zone.”
“You’re right, that last one was a stretch. How about nugget nest?”
“It’s a Speedo. Call it a dignity killer.”
A locker door slams shut, the sound of footsteps. The door opens and then closes, but the voice continues, “Satchel of the bulge?”
there is no dignity when you get up hungover, your junk hanging out beneath your gunbelt...and someone there with a camera to record it. punch. smash. there. still no dignity but feeling happier. story? piss off...what do you want for nothing
(from my DH)
The stench rising from the river punched Alfred in the face with the power of a thousand fists. He had lost his last bit of dignity the night before in a drunken scuffle, and his current precarious perch did nothing to alleviate his hungover stupor.
For the hundredth time, he asked himself “How did it come to this?”. The menacing Asian man piloting the filthy junk was no help, and the gunbelt strapped across his chest signaled that no other questions would be answered today. Once again, she was going to have to save him.
He stuffed the gun under his shirt. Wait ‘til Billy sees this! He left the gunbelt in the cabinet—it was way too big anyway—and peeked at his dad on the couch. Snoring. “Hungover,” his mom had growled as she rushed off to work. Not enough that Jimmy had to hustle for the bucket, but enough that he would be flat out all day. Long enough. Dad had always threatened to punch the dignity out of him he caught him with the gun. Jimmy caressed the cold metal. This would sure beat playing with the plastic junk at Billy’s.
Diginity-punch: It’s what happened to the hungover college kid, wearing a COPS ARE BASTARDS t-shirt, when he barged into the men’s room and saw the cop standing at the urinal with his gunbelt hanging off his hips and his junk exposed.
Bruce Alex - Dying the old west way.
The evening was approaching quickly, as the sound of a deafening ticking clock beats in my head. As i lay here in this confined little room, i had been day-dreaming about the other morning i woke up hungover. It all seemed so surreal, i remember saying to myself. All i can recall is having many drinks, & being in this little bar that had junk-like items from the "old west" days. A collector's old jessie james gunbelt, old cowboy hats worn by various outlaws. There was something about this bar, a mysterious feeling that totally over-whelms you almost with a rage inside of you that wants to protect your dignity.
Then i remembered that fateful evening as if it was blocked like the rage that over-took me that night. The brawl, the fight, the punch that killed that man with no name. Just then the head electrode in a leather harness was applied and a black cloth put on top of my head.
Your _Son_ _Phillip_ , has been suspended for _indefinitely_ for
As you are probably aware, Phillip showed up to school wearing a gun belt, this morning. When asked to remove the offensive article, he said, “Leave me alone, I’m ‘effing’ hungover.” I asked him once more to remove it; he responded, “Quit trying to scope my junk.”
At this point, I immediately sent Philip to the headmaster’s office, where he punched another child in the waiting room for ‘wearing a jacket which assaulted his dignity.’
This is not acceptable behavior for a five year old.
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