Savage Tales

first drink until the door opened and how had this happened she swore she had locked it but no, somehow, no, the door opened and there was a man, who was this man so young and princely and charming. And he toweled her down and led her to a room and deflowered her soul until at the height of her second orgasm he revealed himself as a gigantic spider and began to feast on her breasts and even moreso on her man-made woman leg. She didn't want to do it but she had to end him.
    She got a new, new leg.
    She started writing a book dubbed the autobiography of her soul, her experiences, and after a few days of writing grew bored and hired a ghost writer who interviewed her about her experiences and became so aroused in the process that he started raping her on her couch and she had to end him as well.
    So she returned to writing it herself and developed discipline in the process and became so fascinated by her newfound discipline that she began to discuss it and develop its outline and character in the book itself and it became very meta. She sought a publisher on its completion and found one that agreed to publish it with a few cuts and the work of a ghost writer, and she recalled her first experiences with a ghost writer and decided she was through with all kinds of ghosts, no more ghosts, a permanent boycott, and she went for a different publisher.
    The next publisher agreed to publish it all as it was, exactly, refusing even to correct her typos since they reflected a part of her soul that was trying to escape and which she only repressed with things like grammar and proper spelling and bah, bah, they'd have none of it.
    She didn't like this attitude and looked elsewhere for a publisher.
    This third attempt led to a publisher that would only make minor changes but agreed to correct her typos and this fit her just right like the third bowl of porridge which was the analogy hinted at and recognized even by Emily herself.
    When the book was published Emily had already forgotten she had written it and she passed by the shop window of a bookstore and saw it blatantly featured and she was so impressed with the cover design that she went in and purchased a copy with her first credit card (she had just turned eleven).
    She devoured the book. It was amazing, like the author was speaking directly to her. She turned to the back and there was the author's email so she sent an email and it immediately arrived in her own email inbox and she realized her mistake and laughed until her pants were stained brown.
    Meanwhile Emily forgot about the cost of the book charged to her credit card because the terms of the credit card were devilishly complicated and the charge accrued an enormous 1800% interest rate compounded weekly and before long the debtor's prison had their hooks in her and not even her flowing royalties from her new book could save her.

RO ADWAYS

    The highway was empty as a whore's brain and Willie Nelson was on the radio trying to keep me from falling asleep. I just kept my eyes fixed on the pale glow of my headlights and hoped the road didn't have any big decisions in the next eight hours that would require me to make a choice between a fork.
    And that's when I saw him. He was just a dark blob off the side of the road that turned around when he saw or heard me coming down the road, and his arm arched up and his thumb popped and here was a decision I hadn't thought about. For I had another eight hours at least before I got to El Paso and I needed all the help I could get staying awake. So I pulled the T-bird over and popped the door.
    "Howdy," I said.
    He got in.
    "Thanks," he said. "I wasn't expecting anyone along this road."
    He was a young guy and had only a small sack and a growth of fuzz on his face. Looked like a clean kid though, not the type you find in the desert at ten at night.
    "You're lucky," I said. "I ain't seen another car in a good hour."
    "I sure appreciate it."
    "Where you heading?"
    "How far you going?"
    "El Paso," I said.
    "I imagine that'll do. How far is that?"
    "Sometime in the morning."
    "All right. Maybe I can get some shuteye."
    "Hold on there," I said. " Here's the thing. I don't normally go picking up hitchhikers. There are too many pedophiles and meth heads out by the side of the road. Especially not at night in the middle of nothing like this. Not that I'm suggesting you're one of America's most wanted or some other criminal mongrel that ought to be locked away in a cage for a good number of