The Whistler
Matthew Oldbong had a funny bone, like anyone, a fanny too. What Matt did not, in fact have, was a whistle. He’d seen children with whistles. He’d wanted one. He’d even tried to crave one into existence. However, he found that his beloved remained in lockup.
Buck for blow, the lowly store-front whistle fucked with his head, begging him to buy it. Sadly, Matt was fucked-by-numbers. He’d ripped several bongs in anticipation of cash, however, none had arrived. Perhaps work would produce the cash. However, several bong hits later, no such work presented itself. Matt was sad. He cowered in the corner.
“Boy, you know what I’d like? A whistle” He told the stool.
Having exhausted all ideas, Matt looked toward the bottom of his moral value barrel: stealing from Mom.
“Yes, I shall steal from Mom so I can buy me that whistle!” He informed the stool.
Matt knew his mom liked to put things in the garage. He’d learnt this from pussy.org/mature50somethings. It was in the garage that Matt found his solution… cash.
His mom kept a hefty wad, all in hundreds. Matt slipped a bill into his pocket and took off like a fag-in-bell-lair. He arrived at the store, went in, and waved over the keeper of his utmost holy.
“Doth sir sell the glorious mouth piece?” He asked.
“Excuse me?” Replied the store keep.
“Get me the high-pitched ear soother” He replied, pointing to the whistle in the window.
The store owner wisped on over to the cabinet and produced a whistle.
“This is the x3000… spit valve, chrome alloy, rumble pack” Informed the shop keeper.
“Done” Replied Matt.
That Summer was the best Matt would ever have.
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