A Piss-Soaked Pig on the Sniff for Grift

An aromatic blast of farm-fresh cum hit me as I opened my trunk. With it came the crash of a 54-ounce jug filled to 50. When I woke in my car that morning I sprayed orange piss to plastic. White to paper towels. I leaned the first against the interior cubby door. Less than an hour later I popped my trunk and the bottle fell. Splatted cement with a three pound thud. Its still warm waste ran across the library parking lot. This lava flow of liquid gold wet the asphalt in a long line down the incline ’til it seeped beneath another car. There was little to be done but laugh at my scuzz-soaked life.

Though sun signaled just morning I was now spritzed with piss. My fresh-laundered sweats graffitied in yellow. I took the filth-fucked bottle then poured its dregs to grass. Dropped on knees to retrieve its lid from the undercarriage of my car. The cap sat flipped, its nook filled with more matter. I stood and noticed two new stains from where I knelt. Piss clung to clothes. A territory marked upon myself. Nothing knockoff Febreze couldn’t exterminate.

I tidied my trunk. Cleaned up the carnage. Ruffled bedding and spent paper towels. That morning’s cum rags mixed in unholy alchemy with the creeping mold that ate at my sleeping bag. I bought it for $15 but it kept me warm as I carried it across the badlands. As I paddled up to Canada. As I made a loop around Mt. Hood, sleeping in the forests of Oregon. I knew it was shit-rate swill but this gear served me well.

Now the bag warmed me on raw desert nights. Acted as mattress on oven-esque eves when humidity hit 90. When I slept shirtless in the trunk of my car, cursing winter heat. That warmth beckoned me south but also made me sweat then freeze when sun shot lava. This cycle left me sleep-starved. Turned me frazzled when each morning’s light seeped to the trunk’s interior.

I picked the piss bottle from where it hit cement. From the public library’s parking lot. I thought of other events like this. The time hubris bit me. I’d caught Superorganism at a free show. Scored fifteen phone chargers from the concert’s sponsor. Sweet pocket-sized slabs of amperes. They came gratis but I gave into a natural need to be sneaky. To take more than needed.

I loaded a flimsy string knapsack ’til its cords ripped into shoulders. I scored this bag from the floor of another show and now finally found its use. I felt thrilled with this grift. With all the unearned dollars jabbing my back as a favorite band played. When the show finished I stepped outside and fished food from the garbage. There was no ceiling to my need, no gutter too low to sniff through. With pizza in hand I ambled the streets like a low-rent libertine.

I slinked miles back to my car then bragged on the phone about my Fort Knox score. About how I’d scammed the show hard. Fifteen chargers to juice my shit. To parse out as gifts. Already I wished I’d sucked up more. Why settle for fifteen when I could snag thirty. My greed for grift seemed a pig ever in need of feed. Ever slinking just outside the slaughter. I was happy to fork over slop ’til it exploded, then force-feed it even more.

I popped my trunk to deposit the score. As I dug through the cubby I picked up a piss bottle. It sloshed pee the hue of jungle greens planted in desert. The cap came off. Contents spilled across me. Hot sun cooked its off smell to sweat-soaked clothes. Dagnabbit. Years of going in bottles meant little. These hazards still chased me. Loose caps and leaks. The ever-present threat of a golden shower. I had the habits of Howard Hughes but not his cash to hide each idiosyncrasy.

I thought about the rancid splashback of scuzz world. Each ding on dignity. Still, these humbling moments meant little. I’d keep pissing and cumming and sleeping in cars. Keep at this bottom-feeder life with scant need to surface. To even look up as I scanned the muck-fucked troughs of life. I felt no inner impetus to change. This seemed my natural state or at least the one I slunk into. A piss-soaked pig on the sniff for grift. No shame in the scuzz game.


If you’re a billionaire who likes my writing but can’t cum unless you help me afford more than dumpster food then you’re in luck. Ways to support my work can be found here: Support my Writing!

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