A BIT OF ABSURDITY TO KICK THINGS OFF
It was black over Notre Dame—and I really didn’t give a fuck. It could of been sunny for all I cared. There could have been a tornado rolling round the streets. Or a bunch of dolphin caught in tuna nets off the coast. I really just didn’t give a fuck.
At that moment all I wanted was an orgasm. An orgasm would have made me feel better.
As I was saying, I was leaning against one of Notre Dame’s buttresses with a bad case of blue balls. This skinny little whore had her fat French lips around my cock. Torrents of saliva were flying out of her mouth, soaking the front of my trousers with dark spittle marks, and slicking down the two chest apples she’d disengaged from her halter top. She was really going to town, head bobbing, hand jerking so fast I could see three of them at once, but still not managing to finish me off. With a face glistening in ropes of her own spit, she asked if she was doing something wrong.
It was simple. If you can’t make a guy blow his wad after a minute or two you’re doing something wrong.
Finally, I couldn’t keep it up anymore so I pushed her away. I thought I’d get myself an orgasm but succeeded only in worsening the case of goddamned blue balls I’d been suffering that afternoon. I thought about curbstomping her. That is, until I got a good look at the hanging slabs of roast beef between her thighs. For a second I wanted to fuck them hanging roast beef slabs, then I just wanted a sandwich from Arby’s. I hadn’t seen an Arby’s in Paris, yet. I didn’t think they had Arby’s over here, and that made me sad. Especially if I was five thousand miles away from horsey sauce.
I reared my head back and screamed at the top of my lungs, “WHY ME?!?!?!?!” then I tossed the old slut a five franc coin and told her, “Better luck with your next Jean.”
I was walking away when she yelled “Merde! I said Euros! Not this garbage!” and launched the five-franc piece back at my face.
Dumb bitch didn’t know how to give a proper blowjob and she thinks I’m going to pay her in Euros? I should have paid her in Monopoly money.
So, what, if anything, can you learn from this episode? I’m Bob Collins. I’m an asshole. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.
I was walking away from Notre Dame and trying to remember just how much I enjoyed fucking pigs when the French hooker began following me. Forgive me, but I’m not too keen on re-opening “a line of communication” with a hooker that has a defective cunnilingus technique.
“You owe me money,” she barked, “and if you don’t pay, I will call my manager,” like her pimp was an upstanding member of the business community.
This was France, so maybe they did have a pimp union. How would I know?
“Fine,” she said, pulling a cellphone out of her bag. “If that’s what you want, do not say I didn’t warn you.”
“You didn’t,” I said.
After scowling, she tapped the screen.
Not long after that, a guy pulled up along side me in a gray Fiat. He was Albanian. I could tell by the low forehead.
Last thing I needed to deal with was an Albanian. They were the fucking degenerates and losers of Europe, even one step below the Irish.
This particular Albanian looked like he could single-handedly destroy a small Italian village.
“Put down your fists,” he said to me in a very calm manner. “You owe money. Jasmine spends two hours on you, you pay for time and effort. You no climax, problem yours. Still pay for time.”
My position was simple. “She said she’d get me off. She didn’t deliver the goods, so she don’t get no money,” I said.
“Look,” he said, “I can see we are having difficulty understanding one another. I am reasonable man. You give me money, all is forgotten. You refuse, I kill you. Simple as that.”
I didn’t even see it, but his fist connected with some part of my face. Next thing I know, I was handcuffed in the backseat of the Albanian’s Fiat.
“I hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” the Albanian said. He looked sad at what the future was about to make him do.
We pulled up to some country house. Inside, he led me through corridors and corridors until we got to a set of doors that led to the cellar. The Albanian then tied me to a chair in the cellar underneath a dim light bulb.
I don’t know much about French country houses, but I do know most of them are old. Because these houses are old, no one would hear me scream.
The Albanian touched together claws on a set of jumper cables and blue sparks went shooting out.
“Where I come from,” said the Albanian, “life very rough. Sometimes, we would play futbol with head of corpse. Because of war, there no balls, but we have lots of corpse. So we find head, kick guy’s head around. Score many goals. But don’t kick too hard—might get brain on the boots. Pavol, my friend, juggle head for ten minutes, knee to knee, foot to foot. Now Pavol play professional in France. Do you understand?”
“No,” I said.
“What I say, American weak. Albanian strong. Now you understand?”
“I got an eleven-and-three-quarter-inch dick,” I explained. “American big, Albanian small. Even Steven.”
“Good luck for you, that thing. But, still, it make you debt, you must pay. Is only good.”
The Albanian touched the positive and negative clamps of a set of jumper cables together again.
“Now, I give one last chance to American, pay me money, or I attach to nipple?” the Albanian said. “When I run electricity through, nipples no feel good. Either American hurt so bad he give money, or he die. Simple. Either way, I happy.”
I didn’t say a word.
“Okay, have it your way. Like Burger King. Just so you know, I’m not so cruel I enjoy this. All you need is cooperate. I let you go. You give me money, I untie you. Is simple.”
“You know what’s really simple?” I said. “Your mom! Last night I fucked her asshole out, then I made her sniff her own shit right of my johnson!”
Where this came from, I had no idea, and in hindsight, probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say to an Albanian gangster who’s about to electrocute your nipples.
The Albanian sent a bazillion jolts of electricity through my knackered nips. All I could do was spew out curses about the Albanian’s mother until my puffy pink nipples were black and smoking.
“See? Is very simple. You are in a life death situation. Here, in cellar, no one can hear you. You scream for days in torture, no one come rescue you. You are at my mercy. For you, I am now God. I have power make you live, make you die. See? I make you pay. One way or other, you pay. Either money, or life. To me, I go on, not one care what I do to you. I sleep fine. So, why make enemies when be friends instead?”
There wasn’t no other way out of this. I’d scoured the room for an escape route. Nothing but the door we’d come in from.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll pay you, but I don’t got the money on me.”
“I am shock,” the Albanian said. “Of all stupid things to do you get whore but no money. I almost think I should kill you just to make world less suffering.”
“No argument from me,” I told him.
“Instead, I just do one thing—for fun!”
The Albanian clamped the jumper cables on my balls. When he threw the switch, jolts and watts and joules of power ransacked my scrotum. So much energy went through that sag bag a geyser of semen squirted from my dong. The lion’s share got the Albanian in the eyes. He reared back, screaming that his eyes burned. That’s what you get when you take a Bob Collins load. Not just sperm, but a whole host of random and assorted microorganisms.
I managed to snap my bindings—the dumb motherfucker only secured me with a bow tie—then I walked up to the Albanian, who had assumed a kneeling position before me, and I kicked him right in the nuts.
As he rolled and flailed on the ground I told him no one fucks with Bob Collins, excepts hookers and sluts.
I still had some unfinished business with a certain French hooker that reminded me of Arby’s. I found her dorking some Jean against a Notre Dame buttress.
“Hey!” I yelled.
She looked over her shoulder. “You!” she said. “How did you—?”
“Leave the talking to me, toots.”
“’S’gonna have a real sore sack of nuts in the morning,” I told her. “Now, it’s time you finished what you started.”
“Who are you?” the Jean said. “Get out of here. I’m busy.”
“Sorry, bro, but I don’t cater to Frenchmen,” I told him just before I kicked him in the groin. His boner went flying through the air. He ran after it, like a wide receiver going for a Hail Mary, so, just to be a good citizen, I tripped him, then kicked him in the head, knocking him out cold, an act of patriotism.
“It’s just you and me now,” I said with a level glare at the whore. “I want you to take me to Arby’s.”
“Arby’s?” she said, a pseudo-ignorant answer if I ever heard one.
“Don’t play innocent with me,” I said.
“But—but—I never heard of—RBs?”
“It’s a roast beef joint. Get it? Roast beef, RB’s, Arby’s? I could really got for a good giant right about now.”
“A good giant?”
“Enough of the innocent talk, sister, you’re coming with me!”
I dragged her off by an armpit. I was going to get a roast beef sandwich, come hell or high water.
We looked all over Paris. No Arby’s.
Next thing I know, Paris either had a blackout or someone had conked me on the head.
When I woke up, the Albanian was smiling at me. He had third degree burns around his eyes.
“I told you,” he said, “you pay, one way or other.”
Finally, I nodded, yeah. I’d pay. I tossed him a hundred Euros.
“More,” he said. “For eyes.”
I gave him four hundred more.
“We ever see each other again,” he growled. “Bring money, or I kill you again! Are we understanding one another now?”
“Now, I take you back to Notre Dame now,” he said.
The Albanian drove me back down to Notre Dame, where I was sleeping on a cardboard box. He was going that way, anyway, to drop off the French whore at her post.
“Okay, is settled,” the Albanian said, opening the door to his Fiat. “Is nice doing business with you,” he said as he and his hooker walked away.
I stood there all alone with only a couple charred nipples for company.
I looked at all the shit around me, all the lights and noises and sounds I hadn’t noticed before. Paris was kind of pretty when you stopped to look at her, but, like I said, I didn’t really give a fuck. It could have been sunny for all I cared. There could have been a tornado rolling round the streets. Or a bunch of dolphins caught in tuna nets off the coast. I really just didn’t give a fuck.
So, what, if anything, can you learn from this?
Bob Collins is an asshole.
And there ain’t no Arby’s in Paris.