There I was, standing with a hot dog in his hand, the sweat dripping off my brow and into the mustard that topped the meat. “I don’t have any more money – I just spent it on this hot dog,” I told the man with the gun.

“Bullshit! I know you have to have more.”

“If I had more money, why would I get a hot dog?” The gunman couldn’t argue with that. He decided to shrug and walk away. Meanwhile, the hot dog had gotten bored of the shenanigans and snuck off to a local pizza place to make fun of the foreigners. He had nothing to do for awhile. So he ate a pickle and called it a day. Then all of a sudden he got really sleepy and fell asleep inside of the coffee grinder. He couldn’t really do much, because the beans were added and then ground. The customers complained that the coffee tasted funny. The owner had no idea what had happened, but the customers ended up beating the shit out of him. “Teach you to fuck with my beverages!” one man said. He only had one drink. A fucking cunt of a woman came up and tried to steal it from him. As he pulled it from her grasp, the top popped off and it spilled all over her. She screamed as the hot contents spilled all over her hands and malformed breasts.

Meanwhile, I lamented the loss of my hot dog. A tear welled up in my left eye and mixed with the sweat on my face.  I shoved the bun in my mouth and chewed it slowly, thoughtfully.  Nothing could change my mind now. I set off to my house to look at my paintings.

When I arrived at the door of my house, I froze.  Out of the corner of my eye I could see the neighbor’s asshole dog watching fearfully from behind the fence.  I made a sharp motion in its direction, and it flinched and fell backwards.  I pointed and laughed, the dog blushed and moped away in defeat.  I walked in, greet Charles with a “Cheerio” and went into the basement.  I pulled the string next to the sole bare light bulb and illuminated my paintings in a haunting, truthful light.  The faces stared back.  I spit on all of them except for Mr. Wilkins.  Oh Mr. Wilkins.  He never gets spit on.  He doesn’t deserve it.  No sir.  I peed on him instead.  His grin turned to sadness as he realized that he wasn’t getting watered – he was getting peed on.  Why a painting would be happy about getting watered to begin with, I’ll never know.  Sir Francis Mikula watched in chagrin through his one good eye, and Dorothy Matthias sipped her tea as the spit soaked through her garments.  She did not even seem to notice that I had hocked the mightiest of loogies on her.  It was quite a doozy.  The other assholes looked upset, but said and did nothing, for fear of being slashed.  They’re lucky I don’t toss some paint thinner on their asses and call it a night.  But I guess I’m not really that sadistic.

In the end, I felt better.  Not because the paintings made me feel that way, but because Charles made hot dogs for dinner and I managed to steal one of them and make Charles puke the other one up by jamming a wooden spoon down his throat.