Birthday Stan the Mother Fucking Man by Rick Spearman
Stan was hunched over the urinal with one hand on the graffiti covered wall to support his bulky frame, amused
by the red tinge in the steady stream of urine flowing from the end of his battered dingus. He was bleeding again.
Was it the years of self abuse, too much drinking, and did it even matter anymore? His piss splattered against the
porcelain, then like everything else in his life swirled down the drain.
That's when he noticed the eyeball in the middle of the pink urinal cake. It was a perfect blinking eye, with long
luscious lashes. The bright blue eye stared up at him and his pecker.
"Can't even piss without interruption, fucking hallucination." he grumbled directing his stream into the blinking
orb. It winced as if in pain, and disappeared.
He finished, tucked it in, and zipped up. He reached into the urinal, plucked the cake out and hurled it against
the ink stained tile wall shattering it into thousands of pink waxy fragments.
Stan quickly washed his hands in the sink, not wanting to see his reflection in the mirror. Why bother? Same
old washed up, middle aged, alcoholic, factory worker. He was ugly and grizzled, hating himself and most
everyone else, and on his birthday of all days, but it was payday after all, every black cloud had a silver lining.
He pushed open the creaking restroom door and emerged into the safe cocoon of the dimly lit bar room.
Little had changed in the ten minutes he had spent relieving himself in the crapper. The kid in the army jacket
and Mohawk was still humping away on the clanging pinball machine as his effeminate looking companion with the
long blonde locks waited for sloppy seconds.
Bruno the bouncer, a vicious thug with beady rat eyes, no neck, bulging biceps, and a pigeon's brain, sat on a
stool near the front door cleaning his nails with the corner of a matchbook. Curly chest hairs poked up through
the open neck of Bruno's burgundy silk shirt, wrapping themselves around his gold chains like ivy on a rock wall.
Stan hated Bruno, and steered clear of him on most nights. He'd seen Bruno "The brutalizer" injure many an
unlucky patron while escorting them out the front door. He hated thugs like Bruno. He also hated the crude way
that Bruno talked to Angie.
Angie the owner's daughter was bartending, a sweet beautiful young lady, who didn't belong in a mean shit
hole like the red cat lounge. She treated Stan like a human, even though he saw her cringe a few times when she
looked his way. He caught her in the bar mirrors reflection, but he didn't mind, girls like her deserved much better
than being here, serving drinks to old drunks like Stan.
He returned to his stool at the bar, his beer glass, half gone, was bathed in condensation, sting on a coaster,
next to half a pack of Lucky Strikes.
Part 2
"Hey handsome birthday boy I missed you while you were gone." Angie smiled up at him and continued to wipe
down the bar counter with a clean rag. Her firm breasts strained against the confines of her tight white T-shirt and
bra, greeting Stan's gaze with polite nods. She spun around gracefully to place tip money in her jar, revealing a
small tattoo on her lower back. She dropped a quarter and bent over to retrieve it, giving Stan a birds eye view of
her love nest, outlined in vivid detail by her skin tight daisy dukes. Her long tanned legs mocked his ugliness
making him want. Damn her. Why did he torture himself? Putting women like her on a pedestal. She ate, shit, and
fucked like everyone else. No different. She was probably even sucking Bruno off like the other cunts, or she
secretly enjoyed being gang banged by circus midgets. She had a lot of nerve calling a man who despised
looking in the mirror handsome, what a fucking cock tease.
I have her birthday boy right between my legs.
His mind drifted, as his sudden rage subsided. He slipped in and out of it more often now. Earlier in the day at
ice cream factory he lost track of time letting thousands of hand wrapped creamcicles go by on the conveyer belt
without spotting a single bloody Band-Aid.
In his mind he traveled to a quiet place, far away from the noisy machinery and the job he held since high
school, quality control for frozen treats, to a strange and wonderful world. Where naked men and women danced
and copulated under clear blue skies, in knee deep orange grass, under a bright red sun. In the dream world
Stan felt like he belonged no longer threatened by the real world. It was truly beautiful.
A petite smiling red headed female with a bronzed firm body, ample breasts and supple hips approached Stan,
and grabbed his throbbing erection as if she were shaking his hand.
"Oh my god you're on fire!"
Dan snapped upright as his barstool tipped over. He felt a searing pain in shoulders and back, as his yellow
and blue windbreaker welded itself to his flesh. Waterproof yes. Fireproof no. He began rolling as he sprawled on
the sticky wood floor. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bruno, Mohawk kid, and feminine boy laughing.
"Happy fucking birthday bitch you're the candle on your cake, get it, asshole." Mohawk squealed in a high
pitched voice as he flicked his Bic lighter.
"Shit yeah, mother fucker." the girlish looking one with slim hips, boomed in a deep voice.
The fire was out, but the pain was only beginning. He sprang to his feet hitting Mohawk in the Adam's apple
with a knife hand chop, the kid dropped like a sack of shit. Feminine boy was back peddling when Stan grabbed a
right hand full of collar and a pony tail with his left and spun, tossing the son of a bitch across the room into the
dry humped pinball machine. Stan had two down, one bastard to go. Bruno grabbed him from behind, bear
hugging and trapping his arms. Stan crushed the bones in Bruno's foot when he stomped down on it with his
heavy steel toed work boot.
Bruno collapsed in a heap weeping and holding his sneaker.
"I always knew you were a pussy Bruno."
Stan walked over to the bar lit a Lucky Strike, and drained his glass. That's when he realized he'd forgotten
about Angie. He found her cowering behind the bar crying.
"Please don't hurt me." She pleaded.
"I'm sorry. I don't think you should be here." he replied taking a drag.
"Happy birthday Stan. I really mean it. I'm sorry too." Angie said in a whisper, her lips quivering.
"The only thing you have to be sorry about is if you're sucking that piece of shit's cock." he replied pointing at
Bruno, who was still clutching his foot.
Her face lost all color, and she began sobbing.
He tore off what was left of his burnt windbreaker, and tossed it on the floor.
"Stupid kids shouldn't fuck with old bitter drunks." he said as he turned and headed for the door.
"It's not my fault, he forced me to, and I had no choice." she screamed.
Before walking out he took one last look at the carnage, and shook his head. Then headed to the parking lot
for his car.
Part 3
Later in his bathroom he cleaned his burns and bandaged them the best he could, half expecting the cops to
bust down his door any minute. Forty-two years old, somewhere along the way he got lost and spiraled down the
crapper of life.
It wasn't always like this, he had friends, a social life, and potential for change; then one morning he woke up
and realized it disappeared and he had been floundering for a long time and didn't even notice.
Stan sat on the toilet lid staring at the door as the valium kicked in. The blinking eye returned next to the door
handle, and this time it wasn't alone. A second blinking eye appeared. Stan thought it was the drugs and alcohol
making his vision double. Both eyes were similar but the left one had a distinct twitch, and a brighter blue,
definitely not the same eye twice.
The staring eyes soon became annoying after a while, with their blinking and staring, staring and blinking.
"Stop staring, damn you." he screamed and punched, aiming between the eyes.
The flesh on his knuckles tore, wood splintered, and for a brief moment the eyes stayed; then all that
remained was Stan mentally impaired in his bathroom with skin burned off his hairy back and blood dripping on to
the floor from his battered fist.
An hour later Stan sawed logs on his couch in his living room. He was alone so much that he found no reason
to even go in the bedroom anymore. The couch always smelled like sweat and stale beer. He was snoring like a
buzz saw, and drooling on the pillow.
He dreamed of the bronze skinned female again. She was kneeling before him working her hand up and down
the length of his shaft. She looked up at him with her beautiful blue eye and winked. She opened her mouth to
swallow his head, and stopped. There was a pounding sound, and the dream faded. Stan's eyes opened and he
found himself staring at the crack in the ceiling, alone again with a raging hard on. The pounding sound was
coming from the front door.
Part 4
They sat at the kitchen table drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon tall boys. Stan's neighbor Dave, a kid with an
unhealthy obsession for hanging out with old drunks like Stan had dragged his girlfriend Denise over to for a late
night visit. The valium was wearing thin, pain was returning, but his dick remained stiff. He half heartedly hoped
that Dave would offer up the Denise's often bragged about, oral skills to Stan as a surprise gift to go along with
the beer they were sharing, but he knew Dave was a greedy bastard keeping that all to him.
Dave had lived next door for about a year. They shared a bedroom wall which was a novelty for a while
considering the young couple fucked a half dozen times a day, and Denise was a real screamer.
Stan damn near dislocated his cock trying to keep up, but like every novelty it got old quick, besides he just
didn't have the stamina, and now it was hard to look them in the face knowing he intruded on their intimate
sessions.
Denise had breeder's hips, large round breasts, a meaty firm ass, and overall was built to fuck. She carried a
few extra pounds from drinking beer but her black hair, pretty face, alabaster skin, Goth clothing, and sweet
mouth, more than made up for the flaws. She reminded him a lot of the girls he messed around with at keg parties
after high school, and Christina Ricci. The type of girl looking for fun and a good time, not the girls wanting to
take you home to meet their parents.
"Bruno is coming after you. We stopped by after it happened. He wouldn't call the police, he said he
personally take care of you. The other to offer to help since you fucked them up too." Dave said with his
permanent leer. The sneers always made him look like he was going to hit on your girlfriend or take the last beer
from your fridge.
"Guess I'm lucky he's got a broken foot, maybe he can get those two ass wipes to carry him to me."
They all laughed, and took drags from their cigarettes.
"Yeah the big baby was milking it for all it was worth. The kid with the long hair got the worst of it, his face
looked like a swollen egg plant, and it was disgusting." Denise squealed.
The six pack was gone a few minutes later. Denise was inspecting Stan's wounds, her hot breath on his neck,
her erect left nipple brushing against his arm every few seconds. Dave stood up from the table.
"I'm going to the 7-ll for beer and more smokes; they're open until 2 am. Take good care of the birthday boy
Florence Nightingale. I'll be back." Dave said with a wink.
Five minutes later, Denise was bent over the table with her leather skirt hiked up around her waist, and her
panties down. Her T-shirt was pushed up on her back; Stan was reaching around, both hands on her meaty
breasts, kneading them like bread dough, her sharp pointy nipples pressing into the flesh of his palms.
"Give it to me harder, birthday boy, you filthy fucking pig." She moaned.
Stan obliged, still shocked, but willing, it had been way too long, and she was a step up from anything he
believed he would ever have again, and with Dave's blessing, he might as well make it memorable.
At 1 in the morning, with the building's air conditioning out they were both sweating profusely.
She was also soaking wet with passion and gripped him with unbelievable muscle control, milking him,
whenever he paused. Then he returned to the hard stuff, the front of her thighs digging into the metal edge of
the table, every time he rammed it home, and his balls slapped back and forth against the rear.
He was kissing the back of her neck when he noticed the tattoo, a representation of the winking blue eye he
saw in the pink urinal cake.
What the hell.
Stan looked up; floating in mid air just a few feet away was the bronze woman's head. She smiled in approval
and then mimicked Dave's sneer. Stan no longer felt anger towards the hallucination.
Her body shook violently as she came again. His cock expanded, it was too much, and he stopped knowing he
was going to come. She reached between her legs and grabbed his scrotum, applying gentle firm pressure.
"No, come on me, not in me."
Once again he obliged, pulling out in to time, exploding on the small of her back and watched as it dripped
down between her cheeks, before going limp he entered again for the savoring the last strokes before it was
completely over.
"Oh fuck Stan, you are the mother fucking man, if you were better looking and cleaner, you' be swamped in
pussy." She said.
"Thanks, I guess, not knowing what to say, realizing how easy it could go from dreamlike to reality in a span of
a few seconds.
Denise gracefully pulled her panties back up and lit a cigarette. Stan wiped the sweat from his brow with the
back of his arm.
"This is a one timer, Stan, Dave and I felt sorry for you, he's been feeling generous, and rarely is it as
pleasant as this turned out, I expected it to be a lot worse, so happy birthday you big oaf.
Stan chuckled, the universe was back in order, and they were back to the way things were before, as if it
never happened.
They spent the next half hour smoking, smiling, and staring at each other in silence until Dave returned with
more beer.
Part 5
The next day Stan woke up at 2 p.m. He called his supervisor at the ice cream factory and told him that he would
be taking a few days off. His supervisor said that it wouldn't be a problem, and commended him for his quality
control for the week citing that no lost Band-Aids from the packers had been found farther down the line.
After Stan hung up he said "Stupid Asshole." and then took a shower and shaved, feeling well enough to
make eye contact with himself in the mirror.
He put on his cleanest dirty clothes, and drank coffee instead of beer for breakfast.
He felt good about banging Denise, and O.k. That it wasn't going to happen again. Dave congratulated him,
and let him know that he gave Stan a golden opportunity that no others would ever experience. His back felt
much better as there were only a few spots from where the fabric from the windbreaker fused with his skin that
hurt the rest just itched.
He gathered a load of laundry in an old army duffel bag, and figured it would be worth getting jumped by
Bruno and his pals for some clean clothes. A swamp full of pussy, Stan figured a shot glass full of pussy would be
fine in exchange for a makeover.
Even the bronze chick crossed his mind, at the rate things were going, she would be fully materialized before
he had to return to work, and he would be more than ready to bring Alice the meat like Sam the Butcher.
Stan's phone rang. He picked it without thinking, maybe it was his supervisor calling to cancel his days off.
"Hello."
"Listen you worthless fuck. You broke my god damn foot. If I see you, I'm gon..."
Before Bruno could finish, Stan calmly hung up. An agitated Bruno called back immediately and before he
could speak Stan cut him off. "Shut up and listen, ape, I've watched guys like you; you don't know what to do
when the tables turn. Find a hole to slither into. I'm coming for you and this time I'm going to do more than step on
your toe." His tone was ice cold. Silence was all that was heard from the other end when he disconnected.
He had no intention of going after Bruno. If Bruno was scared, so be it. Stan's birthday was a turning point
now. They tried burning him and he came back, better than before.
Assholes shouldn't have pushed old Stan around. Crazy old Stan the Band-Aid man. Stan finding all the Band-
Aids from the “faggot" college student's blistered hands. That's what the supervisor calls them, the suburban
middle class kids, working in the factory all summer for minimum wage, so they can make a buck, stuffing
popsicles into paper sleeves because the company's too cheap to buy a mechanical fudgecicle packer. Then an
old drunk townie like Stan picks out the bloody Band-Aids so they don't get sued. They're the real mother fuckers.
Part 6
The Laundromat was empty. Stan's clothes were almost dry. He found Laundromats were dead zones; void of
any positive or negative energy, like the washers and dryers cancelled everything out. Soul killers.
He avoided them preferring to wash his clothes anywhere else. Laundromats made his head hurt, and he dozed a
lot in them. The only good ones had a bar within walking distance like the ones he went to on the west coast.
The buzzer went off. Today he folded his clothes and stacked them neatly in his bag instead of wadding them
up and stuffing them in. He hoped he wasn't trying to change too much too soon.
Stan scanned for Bruno, on his way to his Plymouth Valiant, in the parking lot. Nothing yet. When he stepped
off the curb he heard the engine rev and then the tires squeal.
He couldn't tell what make or model it was while he jumped over the hood to avoid getting squashed, but he saw
that it was a half ton Chevy pickup after it slammed head on into the brick wall in front of the flower shop.
"Holy sheep shit." a fat lady in stretch pants screamed.
Mohawk flopped out the driver's door, both hands clutching his throat, falling to the pavement much like he did
the night before when he got chopped in the throat.
"Poor bastard hit the steering wheel. Stan said shaking his head.
He walked to the passenger side. A blonde head with a long pony tail hung out the window. Blood dripped,
pooled, and steamed, beneath the head on the hot pavement.
"Son of a bitch, here we go again, two down, one to go.
Part 7
When he got back to his apartment, Denise was there wearing a skimpy French maid outfit that was all
cleavage and she bent over revealing no panties. She had washed his dishes and appeared to be cleaning his
entire apartment.
He thought he locked the door.
"How the hell did you get in? He asked.
"Don't worry you're not crazy. You did lock the door. I just didn't need a key." Denise replied with a big smile.
"I don't get it."
“My sister and I would like to offer you a proposition.
What about Dave? I thought last night was a one night only occurrence."
"You've know my sister as Dave, we've been watching you, feeling your pain and loneliness, being your friend
when no one else was. We will be leaving soon and we want you to come with us, we could only reveal ourselves
a little at a time to break down all your hostilities. Now you are ready, Will you join us?
He wasn't sure whether she was on the level or not, until Dave suddenly appeared in the room and began
flashing back and forth, changing between Dave and the bronzed woman who disturbed him because of the
dreams and hallucinations. Denise herself changed her hair fiery red, and her eyes bright gold.
The bronzed woman spoke "Stan come with us to our world. No one will miss you. You will be loved by us for
ever. What is your decision?"
"Let's see, spot bloody Band-Aids and get set on fire for the rest of my life, or go where there's a swamp full of
pussy...When's the bus leaving?"
