Spiritual Constipation

By Henry Fleiss

John lives a simple life in the beach condo his parents left him, with plenty of money to do whatever he wants. The problem is, John doesn't know what he wants and his life is going nowhere. His two best friends aren't helping matters. Stanley is an alcoholic who sleeps in his bathtub and Mike has nothing better to do than try to satisfy his basic urges. John's cat, Geronimo, the last present his parents gave him before their untimely deaths, is the only one he feels he can confide in. But John's life is about to take a drastic turn. He begins having dreams of a seven-headed dragon rising up from the fiery pits of hell. Soon after, the infamous angel, Michael, charges him with a mission. He is to write a new text to help prepare the world for the second coming, the only problem with that is, John has to give up everything in order to fulfill his mission, including Maggie, the girl he just met who might be the one. John doesn't have that much faith or ambition. But when Geronimo tragically dies, Maggie leaves him, and he splits from his friends, John feels he has nothing left to lose. Michael leads him to a cave in Avila where he is ordered to write until the book is finished. But one there, John finds it is more than he bargained for. The second coming isn't what he thought it was and it isn't Michael who is going to dictate the new text to him. It is someone, or something, much more frightening.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Green Monkey Publishing
• Release date: Sep 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386805700

Book preview

Spiritual Constipation

by

Henry Fleiss

Chapter 1

As Mike entered John was sitting on his warn, plaid couch playing a game on his phone with his faithful cat bathing beside him. Mike looked around. There were several reasons to condemn the place, from the faulty plumbing and outdated appliances, down to the layer of cat hair that was rarely swept up.

Ahhh! I hate this game! John shouted. It never gives me what I need.

Mike plopped down on the hand-me-down recliner near the empty bookshelf. He started picking at the frayed ends that had been kneaded with Geronimo’s sharp claws.

Candycrush wasn’t designed to get you a job, or get you laid, he said.

John glanced over finally noticing his friend.

When the hell did you get here?

I’ve been here for an hour. You’re so obsessed with that game I could’ve stole the balls outta your pants and you wouldn’t have known it, till you went to play with them again.

What would you say that for? You want my balls, don’t you? You sick bastard.

John started shaking the phone like he was strangling it. Fuck Candycrush! If I ever find out who created this game, God help me, I’ll punch them in the face. It never gives me what I need.

Like I said, it’s not designed to get you a job or—

I heard what you said.

Mike squinted his eyes and scowled at Geronimo. What’s with that cat?

John glanced at Geronimo then started his next candy life. He’s bathing himself, he stated, as if defending his best friend.

For like twenty minutes. Mike watched as Geronimo stretched his back leg over the back of his neck. Now he’s licking his balls.

He don’t have balls. You’re very obsessed with testicles today.

Looks like he’s trying to give himself oral sex.

Better than sticking his dork in that thing you did the other night.

She had a nice personality.

I’m not convinced it was a she.

Mike took a deep breath and looked around the room. Three pizza boxes were piled under the coffee table. The sound of Geronimo’s bathing seemed to get louder.

What’s with that cat’s incisive licking?! He turned back to the cat. He’s like a yoga master. Now he’s down to the asshole.

Geronimo, stop being a cat, John said, making his sarcasm evident. You know Mike has a mental illness.

"It is a legit mental illness. Misophonia."

You-so-phony-a, John said, never lifting his eyes from the screen. That’s not a real thing. Your just pissed you can’t lick your balls.

It’s a legit disorder effecting, he paused, a shitload of Americans.

I wish I could lick my balls, then I’d know how to piss you off.

Licking, chewing, eating with your mouth open, it all sends me into a panic and rage.

Maybe you should see a psychiatrist who specializes in made up mental illnesses.

It’s real! Mike argued, then flinched as the bathroom door in the hallway suddenly opened.

Ah shit, Stanley stumbled into the living room. I think I left my pants at the bar again.

"When the hell did you get here?" John asked.

I slept in your bathtub, man.

John put down his phone.

I took a shit in there fifteen minutes ago, he said. You were in my bathtub?

I guess so, man. I wondered what the smell was. Thought it was the puke all over your tub.

John returned to his game.

I’m hungry. Let’s go get some burgers, Mike suggested.

Burgers, for breakfast? John questioned.

It’s 1:30! If you get you head out of that stupid game you might notice your life passing by.

Meow, Geronimo agreed.

At least the cat has a clean ass, Mike mumbled, referring to Stanley who returned to the bathroom revealing the dirty backside of his underwear.

*

Cow Town was their favorite place to grab a burger. It was close to the beach but priced for locals. It was also employed by pretty waitresses. The food wasn’t bad either. There were over thirty burger choices on the menu, with the option of building your own. You could even substitute the beef for turkey, salmon, tuna, or the black bean burger.

Why do you always get macaroni and cheese as your side? You’re not five years old anymore.

I like macaroni. Back the fuck off.

Mike wanted to pursue the issue, but didn’t. He noticed the flat look on John’s face.

What up? You look like you got dumped by another tourist you thought would move out here for you.

What are we doing with our lives? John asked, taking a bite of his burger.

What do you mean? Don’t get all Socratarian on me. I just wanna eat my burger.

Well there has to be more, John said. Look at us. You’re in the prime of your life and you work at a dollar store stocking shelves. On your best day you find a clean pair of socks to put on, get a burger, and go home with a questionably gendered drunk B.O.B.

I don’t remember her name but it wasn’t Bob.

"No, aaaa B.O.B., he spelled it out. Short for beast of burden."

Whatever, at least I got some, Mike argued.

Some venereal disease, John retaliated.

Mike ignored him. And there’s nothing wrong with my job. I get a lot of free shit from there. I never have to buy toilet paper again.

"Correction. You steal a lot of shit from there. I’m pretty sure toilet paper isn’t a company perk."

Yeah, but banging the cashier in the stock room is.

Ok, so let’s recap. John took one more bite of his burger as he gathered his thoughts. Your best day is finding a clean pair of socks to wear, banging the cashier in the stockroom, which I doubt has ever happened but I’ll give it to you for the sake of my point, then get a burger, and go home with a questionably gendered B.O.B.

So what? Look, I love my life, Mike said. If you don’t love yours, then that’s your problem. I’m happy with who I am. And Stanley is happy with who he is.

What happened to him? I thought he was coming with us.

He wouldn’t come here because they don’t serve beer, Mike answered.

I let him borrow my pants, too, John paused then asked. You think Stanley loves his life? I’m thinking.....he don’t even remember his life.

He loves beer and he loves himself intoxicated with beer. And besides, who are you to say he’s not happy? You don’t work at all. You just sit around and watch your cat lick his balls in that condo your parents left you, which by the way, is falling apart around you. You probably need to get in a band again or something. I could get you an interview where I work.

John shook his head. I don’t know.

Hey, let’s go out tonight. You know like we used to.

What do you mean like we used to, like we used to yesterday? I’m still hung over.

No, I mean when we were young, young. Remember how we use to sneak out of your parents house and—

I don’t wanna talk about that. John turned away. Mike could see the dreadful look in his eyes.

Look, it was a long time ago. I know you miss them, but try to remember the good times. They’re probably in Heaven looking down on you now, laughing at how you wanted a fire escape latter for your fourteenth birthday. Like they didn’t see that one coming. Or the time they caught you with the porn mag in their bed. You have to enjoy yourself, even when you screw up. For their sake. They wouldn’t want to see you miserable. Come on. Let’s go out.

Alright, John reluctantly agreed.

Cool.  I’ll come by the place around 8:00 PM.  We’ll meet up with Stanley if he’s coherent by then.

*

The day passed slowly, like all other mid-days for John. He tended to avoid the crowds that would gather along the boardwalk outside his condo. He was no friend of the summer sun. He preferred to sit inside with Geronimo and play Candycrush, watching old movies, waiting for the evening to arrive.

He thought of changing Geronimo’s name or adding a middle name. He was getting older now, one of the last presents his parent’s got him, and was over the characteristics that earned him the name Geronimo. He rarely dove off the refrigerator or dressers, securing his claws in the backs of guests anymore. Most of the time he sat calmly in John’s lap, purring himself to sleep.

Sleepy Geronimo, he thought might be more appropriate