Readers' Submissions

The Hopeless Dream Part 3

  • Written by Calibra
  • September 9th, 2005
  • 23 min read


Spring is in the air today, but only in a manner of speaking as you heave, twist and haul your gray bloated carcass out of your now defunct wanking chariot and proceed to the bathroom and empty your guts. Last night was a particularly heavy night down at the local. It was a leaving party of sorts with some (a few, a couple) of your closest friends in attendance. Freddy, the barman, was kind enough to open a twenty five year old bottle of Glenfiddich Single Malt in your honour and this was put behind the bar for free and liberal consumption by yours truly. What you didn’t realize was that under the bar next to the unopened bottle of Glenfiddich was a bottle of Red Label ‘cooking’ whisky and this was what Freddy had been so generously killing you with all night. You’ve been made a fool of one way or another for all of your miserable false pointless life. What difference has yet another night made?

After you leave the gas chamber you proceed to get dressed. You are deliriously happy this morning as today is the last day of work. Nicollette, the secretary, was told to organize an afternoon leaving party, which should be a blast. As it’s a special occasion you dress to impress. New brown trousers, a checked shirt, a red tank top and a bow tie. The whole effect is supposed to present the look of an upwardly mobile mature gentleman with an intellectual aura. Instead, you look like what you are, a fat lost pathetic broken old man whose life has been what it still continues to be – shit.

Your cold stale house is now down to minimal furnishings and contents. Your worldly goods have mostly been sold at the clearance sale you held last weekend with the remainder going back to the charity shops where they originally came from. The sale was very traumatic as you stood by the sidelines looking even more broken and pathetic than normal as the young loud hustlers from the local markets were in attendance. The auctioneer usually does his best for the client but one look at you and he knew not to bother. This stupid old fool is just waiting to be slaughtered. Lets get this junk sold / given away so we can all go home. The bidding started and predictably it became a mockery. Everyone was in league with everyone else and together they proceeded to rip through a lifetime of hard work and memories. Everything happened so fast and within a few hours anything of any worth had gone for a fraction of its value. The total came to a few hundred pounds, which will go towards the new life that awaits you in only a fortnight's time.

It was late afternoon when you finally went back inside the house to make a cup of tea in the kitchen. At least they left the kettle. As you stood there and drank your tea you looked around the kitchen. You wandered through to the living room and then upstairs. You returned back to the kitchen and looked around once more. As early evening came on everything looked cold and drab and empty. A feeling of total despair came over you and for a brief moment you saw everything as it actually was. Suddenly and without warning you let loose a great anguished sob and you broke down. As your body was racked with shuddering sobs you prayed for someone or something to make it all better again. You only want to live and let live, love and be loved, trust and be trusted. Is that so much to ask? You have never betrayed anyone or lied to anyone or been nasty to anyone in your life so why has it all come to this? Why do you have to go to the other side of the world at your age to find true love with someone who is almost twenty years younger than your daughter, the one you last saw in passing almost six months ago? You should be sitting by the fire surrounded by your grandchildren and a loving wife while your son puts in a few hours at his surgery and your daughter puts the final touches to a management takeover bid. Why then has your daughter been claiming benefits all her life (shoot the worthless parasite bitch – Calibra) and your son is currently serving an eight year stretch for possession with intent to supply? As you went over all of this you cried and cried and cried. Please god, you hoped, let me find happiness so I can live out the rest of my life in peace with a good honest simple woman.

During the afternoon leaving bash at the office people come up to you and shake your hand, wishing you well. As it’s Friday everyone is in a good mood anyway which makes it easier to feign interest and be happy for this daft old fuck. You see Nicolette over by the photocopier sipping a glass of gin and bitter lemon so you waddle over to have a final word and a flirt. You randy old bugger, what a rogue you are. You lean forward and plant a kiss on her cheek. Your cold rubber lips take up almost all of one side of her face and she can’t help but grimace at the cold wetness and the stink. As it’s the last time you will see her you let the kiss linger for a little while and people begin to notice. Mike sees Nicolette’s obvious distress and comes to the rescue in the form of conversation. As you finally pull away the young woman is visibly upset but, like Thailand, you fail to notice. As you blether away to Mike on the rarely mentioned subject of Thailand vs the Western World Nicollette tries to compose herself in the toilets but it’s no use. She feels violated. How could any woman put up with that stink? She pities the poor woman that will have to put up with the abuse over in Thailand or wherever it is you’re going. She thinks there should be laws here to stop this sort of thing, compulsory containment in old folks' homes once a certain age has been reached or something? Surely it must come close to an abuse of human rights or a violation of the Geneva Convention or something like that? If she feels like this after one kiss, how will that poor young woman over there feel after spending a night with that repulsive creature? Could it be construed as rape? Should she report him? Does this sort of thing go on all the time over there? Surely not. Surely wherever it is he’s going will have laws to stop the blatant victimization? Just because he’s got a little bit of money this does not give him the right to physically and mentally destroy another human’s life. Nicolette thinks these thoughts and she surprises herself that she has the intellect to think them. She’s even more surprised to feel a wave of white hot anger surge forth, threatening to overwhelm her. Soon enough, it does.

The conversation fairly flows. The few glasses of wine on top of that fine malt whiskey you had to drink last night works wonders and for the first time in days you actually feel happy and at one with your surroundings. You’re happy to like and be liked. From the corner of your eye you see someone rapidly approaching and to your surprise it’s Nicollete. Her colour’s high and she walks with a purpose towards you. Maybe she’s overcome with emotion, sorry to see you go. CRRRAAAACK, a pistol shot goes off as she strikes you hard in the face with her open palm. Your eyes instantly burn like the fires of hell as, wide open with shock, she throws a full glass of neat gin and bitter lemon into them. A direct hit. Her toned leg pistons out and smashes into your wizened gonads, similar to a kick from Jonah Lomu. Another direct hit. You collapse to the ground in agony and shame as she screams a torrent of abuse at you. You try not to listen but it's too late. You hear deep down what you know to be true. As you struggle to your feet the abuse continues although now she’s being restrained. She struggles free and marches out of the office. You stand there alone and in silence. You feel a cold wetness down your legs. You look down to see large dark patches of urine soaking through your trousers. During your moment of extremis you have pissed yourself. Although surrounded by people, you have never felt so alone in your life. You feel the familiar deep sorrow and loneliness return as the Supervisor comes up and tells you that perhaps you should leave. You take his advice and leave, a broken man, never to return.

On the way home you cheer up considerably, although your bollocks continue to throb and ache and your eyes feel as though they’ve been skewered with red hot pokers. This is Friday. Come Monday evening, you’re out of here. Nothing can dampen your spirits, not even a kicking from a neurotic secretary who is obviously jealous of the fact you are about to embark on a wonderful adventure to start a new life with a woman who genuinely loves you. In fact, a phone call is long overdue and you decide you will call her tonight, even though it will be very late in Thailand and she will be tucked up in bed exhausted after a hard day at college. You stop off at the local off license for a bottle of Cream Of The Barley. A few cheeky drinks in the house then you’ll phone your sweetheart. You can’t wait.

When you arrive home you notice a new sensation emanating from your bollock region, a sharp knifing sort of pain. In the bedroom you peel off your sweat and urine soaked garments and what you see really shocks you. Your white Y-fronts have a fresh new stain besides the usual brown and yellow ones, a large red blood stain. You panic now and rush to the bathroom. You take the small shaving mirror and awkwardly lean it at an angle against the floor skirting board. As you have been unable to see your own genitals for the last thirty odd years this is the only way you have a hope of inspecting the damage, which is considerable. Through the peeling red rash you notice a three inch gash down the middle of your testicles. Your sack has been fractured. Luckily it has clotted and the bleeding has stopped. Your testes are large because they are swollen and are now turning purple. Due to the swelling the dry peeling rash has split, covering your sack in pin pricks of blood. This is bound to cause problems on the flight to Thailand, that’s for sure.

A few drinks later and it’s time to phone your sweetheart. It’s 6.00pm here which means it will be the early hours over there. This causes you a little bit of concern because you do not want to awaken your angel who will be sound asleep, no doubt dreaming of the time when you can both be together. You heave yourself up from the armchair but do not make it. You try a second time, this time coming close. You gather your strength and on the third attempt you make it to your feet and let out a shriek of pain. The fresh pair of white Y-fronts you put on has stuck to your sack due to the weeping fracture and rash. You quickly haul them down over your bowed trunk legs which now leaves you standing naked, unperturbed and in considerable pain you waddle bow legged out into the corridor to the phone, trying to keep your now freakish looking sack free and aerated. You fumble with the small address book and to your horror you drop it. Almost in slow motion you see it fall to the floor, several miles away down a deep abyss. You let out a deep anguished sigh and bend down to pick it up. As you do this you feel a sudden build up of pressure on your huge moon gut which in turn sends a jet of ‘follow through’ towards your anus. Instinctively you clench and wait. At least you have the address book in your hand, which is now curled around it in a kung fu death grip. You wait a little while longer. The damage appears to be minimal. As long as you keep your huge butt cheeks clenched there should be no leakage. You stand up and compose yourself. Slowly, very slowly, you turn the pages of the small book until you come to her number. No way can you afford to drop it a second time. If you are forced to bend down again a high pressure jet will shoot forth, probably ending up next door. You pick up the phone and dial her number ever so carefully. It rings once, twice, three times…nothing. You are about to scream when she picks it up on the seventh or eight time and immediately your ears are assaulted by a cacophony of sounds. You hear what appears to be loud, almost thunderous music and a whole host of men’s voices. Eventually you get her to understand that its Wolfgang calling….Wolfgang….you know darling….Wolfgang (not for the first time you mentally thank your German parents for blessing you with one of the worlds most powerful distinguished names). Oh yes hallo dahling, how ah yew dahling, yew ok, why yew call me now, I no like yew call me this time…I now at paaty foh my mata, she fipty today. Oh, sorry darling I forgot. Did you mention this to me before, oh, probably. Old age creeping up on me I suppose. So, hows your mother and family doing….what??? oh, sorry, wait a minute….. I SAID HOW YOUR MAMA PAPA DOING, THEY OK? Oh yeh, my mata and fata velly good. My bratas velly good too. Dey ah heeyaa now, yew wan to talk wit dem? Oh, no, it's ok, I only wanted to talk with you…what? Oh sorry. I SAID I ONLY WANT TALK YOU. Oh, ok, no ploplem, I wan talk wit yew too. Yew call back tomollow ok, aptanoon at fye o cock ok? What, tomorrow, but I want to talk now. I’ve had a hard day…a hard week even. I want to talk to you and listen as you tell me everything’s going to be alright and how you can’t wait to see me and how I’ve made the correct choice and I want to talk with you about love and companionship and how we’re going to live our lives together in sweet blissful harmony…..Can’t we talk now Noy? What??? I SAID CAN’T WE TALK NOW NOY?….OK, I UNDERSTAND. I WILL CALL BACK TOMORROW. I JUST WANT TO SAY NOW THAT I LOVE YOU AND I THINK…….You stare at the phone. The line’s dead. You call back but for some reason the phone seems to be switched off. Perhaps the network over there is playing up again?

After the telephone conversation you stand and wonder. For a fleeting second common sense threatens to appear but you quickly hammer it back down. You now have a new sensation to worry about. The backs of your huge legs are pleasantly warm, then the stench hits you. You forgot to remain clenched.

Somehow, Monday night arrives. After a torturous weekend of waiting and waiting this glorious day has arrived. Over the remainder of the weekend there were no more toiletry based mishaps. The estate agent arrived and put the for sale sign up in the window. You signed over power of attorney to your lawyer on Saturday afternoon. The car was sold on the Sunday for a knockdown price but by then you didn’t care. Your only misgivings now center around your bollocks, which are still weeping and swollen, the rash, which has spread to your anus (which was never healthy at the best of times), the fungal infection on your feet, which has worsened, the incontinence, which seems to be more diahorea based now (as was proven the other night) and, last but not least, you now have a large cold sore on the side of your mouth just to add to the constant smell of garlic and yeast.

After much huffing and puffing you get out of the taxi at the airport and grab a trolley. The first one you take has deformed and stiff wheels. The second one seems to have the brake stuck on. The third one is fine and you and the driver load up your suitcases. After you pay the driver it’s into the airport and down to the far end to the check in desk. As you build up momentum the trolley gives off a loud metallic screeching noise. As there seems to be no other trolleys nearby you are forced to put up with it all the way down to the check in desk, much to the annoyance of some of the other passengers. Finally you make it to the check in desk and join the queue. You take stock. Your choice of dress was very appropriate. White chino style trousers, a bright yellow short sleeve shirt, brown slip on shoes and since it’s a special occasion, a cream coloured panama hat. All in all a very distinguished package, despite the large sweat stain down the back of your shirt and your perspiring red shiny face, which you constantly wipe with a hankie. Behind you, two young twenty something males are away for a fortnight's holiday. They laugh and joke and snigger behind your back, hoping they don’t end up in the seat next to you. Further behind you, a young slender woman on the start of her gap year notices your impossible frame and she too hopes she doesn’t end up sitting next to you. Of course, you don’t realize it but almost everyone who sees you thinks the same thing….keep me away from that fat tub of guts.

At the front of the queue now and the pretty lady behind the desk asks to see your passport and your tickets. Certainly my sweet, Wolfgang Willard Richtenstein at your service, you patronizingly boom at her, proud to have been given the chance to use your powerful sounding name. She gives you the usual customary smile but her eyes are dead. Arsehole, she quite correctly thinks.

After your luggage has gone through you are left with three pieces of hand baggage. You’re only allowed two pieces but what the hell, nobody will mind. You spot an inviting watering hole and set sail towards it. Time for a few drinks before the flight. As you enter you are in considerable pain. The walk through the airport and subsequent struggle with the baggage has awakened the rash and damage on your bollocks and its all started to weep again. Maybe wearing white chinos was not such a good idea after all. Anyway, you get a large scotch in and after a few of those you feel quite happy and content. You sit for a while and reminisce. How far you’ve come over the past few months. Nobody thought you could do it and now here you are, about to fly off to a new life, a new beginning, a new destiny. A tanoy announcement brings you back to the present. Your flight is beginning to board. Not wishing to be late you heave yourself up and let out a girl like scream and slump onto an adjacent table, your liver spotted mitt spilling another couple's drink and causing the entire bar to look around. Your underpants have stuck to your weeping sack again.

Through the check in desk, through the gate and onwards now towards the plane. You have made it this far without too many mishaps. The pain down below has now abated slightly and is now more of a sharp throbbing. Your anus feels moist and itchy and you’d love nothing more than to give it a good clawing but there’s too many people behind you. You will have to wait until you’re on the plane. Your feet feel hot, sweaty and painful inside the tight fitting brown leather slip-ons. The fungal infection is really giving you problems now. An aisle seat will allow you to go to the toilet at your leisure and give you a chance to aerate your feet. Oh shit…you forgot to ask for an isle seat. You scramble for your ticket while still on the move. 37A. A window seat.

On the plane now and squeezing up the aisle with three pieces of hand baggage and yes, people do actually mind. As you huff and puff and wheeze up towards 37A you manage to bump nearly everyone’s elbow and / or shoulder either side of you with your 46” hips. Not far to go now as you glimpse the start of the thirty section. As you arrive at your destination the sweat is fairly lashing off of you and the aisle and the middle seats of your row are already occupied. You look up to the overhead storage bins and to your dismay they are packed full. You keep going with the flow of traffic until you come across an empty bin. You reach up and pack your luggage in. The armpit areas of your yellow shirt are predictably soaked through with sweat and the ass crack of your white chinos is also soaked with sweat. The heat of the airplane, to you anyway, is unbearable. The people sitting in the seats directly below you cower away in disgust, instinctively holding their breath as if their lives depended on it. They’re not far wrong. You head back to 37A, people coming up towards you stopping dead in their tracks lest they should make contact with you. You stop at your row and, doffing your panama hat, politely ask the two people to let you in, one of which happens to be the young woman who was behind you in the queue earlier. Somehow, you squeeze in and collapse into your impossibly small seat, almost breaking it. The gentleman directly behind you recoils in surprise as the seat back moves about six inches towards him, and you haven’t even reclined it yet. Once you get settled you go to fasten your seatbelt only to find you are sitting on it. After a titanic struggle you manage to free both ends and as you go to fasten the seatbelt across your amazing gut it comes up short. Surely it cannot be adjusted to the maximum girth? It is, and there is still almost a foot of space between the ends. Almost crying now you reach up to press the button which will alert the stewardess, as the nearest one is away down the aisle and strategically ignoring you. You reach up for what seems like an age and your finger stops dead about four inches from the button. You stretch and stretch but still you cannot reach the damn thing. Any normal person would be able to sit up and take a little weight on the legs in order to get it but at 5’ 8’’ and almost twenty stone this is impossible. However, you persevere and the distance slowly but surely closes. Four inches, three inches, two inches…..almost there now, almost, almost, come on, come on. You’re now shaking and the sweat is running down your face. Such is the pressure and strain on your old bloated body you are only thinking one thought, a mantra of pucker the anus…pucker the anus…pucker the anus…pucker the anus. Suddenly and without warning it happens. Just as you succeed in pressing the button with your stubby finger a short burst of liquid faeces explodes into your white chinos. You collapse back down and soon a stewardess appears. Such is the state of you the stewardess is genuinely concerned. Are you okay sir? Can I get you anything? A seatbelt extension please, you sheepishly reply.

Strapped in now and taking off. As you sit there in your own sweat and slurry you cannot help but feel happy. The plane roars down the runway and up into the clear night sky and you are so happy it cannot be put into words. You’ve come this far, only an eleven hour flight to go and you’ll have made it. The young woman beside you is already wishing for the flight to be over. A little while ago she thought you were having a stroke, and now there is a strange pungent shit smelling stink coming from your area, mixing in with the sweat and sharp urine smell which has been prominent ever since you arrived. It’s as if someone is changing a baby next to her. Please god, the woman thinks, don’t let him speak to me or have to go to the toilet too often.

As the plane levels off you feel physically quite good. The toxic fluid release hasn’t been so bad and as far as you can tell there has been no serious hull breach i.e. the seat you’re sitting on is still dry. As soon as the seatbelt signs go off you decide you will go to the toilet to inspect the damage. Then, once you have removed your shoes, you’ll strike up a conversation with the young lovely sitting next to you. She’s bound to be interested in your views on Thailand vs The Western World.

So, Mr Wolfgang Willard Richtenstein, it’s an eleven hour flight and you’re sitting there ripening quite nicely. We will soon see what mayhem you can bring to this journey. Will the young lady next to you require counselling when she lands? How will your damaged bollocks and fungal infection fair throughout this hot cramped long haul flight? How yeasty will your mouth get? How itchy will your anus get? Almost unbearable I would have thought. And what about the dark brown, almost black mess you fired into your white chinos. White chinos vs. a black toxic mess. Surely this can’t be a good combination? And what about the rash, let’s not forget about the rash…..

Next time on The Hopeless Dream:
– The plane journey from Hell.
– The love of your life.
– A place to live.
– A romantic night out.

A night of passion (Do not read if easily upset!)

Stickman's thoughts:

A seatbelt extension? I've never heard of one of those before.