The Candy Filled Fleshlight (& Seven Shorter Stories)

By David M. Munn

A collection of eight short stories written between May - August 2014.

The Candy-Filled Fleshlight - The tale of Jimmy Stamper, the man who purchased a fleshlight that spits out candy.

Bag - A killer present lies under the tree this Christmas.

Food - A voyeur spies on couples at their most intimate moment: Eating Food.

Samaritan - A jaded Samaritan has a chance at redemption.

Upstairs - A man awakes each night with no memory, other than the knowledge that something lies upstairs. Something that knows everything.

Lane - A tale about a drunken man who bumps into the devil late one night.

Zone - A scientist seeks to discover the secret that lies in the moment we fall asleep

World - The truth about how the world was created.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781326000189

Book preview

The Candy Filled Fleshlight (& Seven Shorter Stories)

The Candy-Filled Fleshlight (& Seven Shorter Stories)

By David M. Munn

Copyright © 2014 by David M. Munn

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the author

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons or actual events is purely coincidental.

Though I'm pretty sure Derryadd is a real place, just look it up, it's right there. Not like that Belfast, I mean what kind of a name is that? Fictional, that's what.

Also by David M. Munn:

A.B OUT

GODSKIN

TERROR! CHANNEL NOT FOUND

To purchase any of my books:

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/Dee_M

To contact me:

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7276172.David_M_Munn

The Candy-Filled Fleshlight

Take a seat and let me tell you the tale of Jimmy Stamper, the poor unfortunate soul who was caught in the path of the Candy-filled fleshlight.

Some folks may presume that Jimmy got his rightful comeuppance while others may find his fate a mite too distasteful even for one such as he. I am but the teller, you must formulate your own opinion.

Jimmy lived in a quiet, quaint little town called Derryadd, situated in the not-quite-centre-yet-not-quite-south-or-west of Northern Ireland, though it would be more accurate to call it a humble gathering of houses given the relative obscurity of the location and lack of population within their borders.

To call Derryadd small would do a disservice to the word, for tiny and teeny would surely mock smalls boastful nature only to see that he was overshooting the mark. No more was this evident than with the local milkman, who forgoes the modern conveniences of a milk-truck in favour of walking back and forth from his house to the houses he delivers to. How else would he stretch a five minute job into enough hours to warrant claiming full-time pay from the government and bumped up milk prices?

Indeed, the price per quart of milk in Derryadd was higher than any other place in the whole of the United Kingdom, even Central London, which was peculiar given that the most popular pet to keep in Derryadd was a cow tethered to a wooden post out in the backyard.

Some psychologists would theorise that the residents are not so much paying for the milk and the pretty green glass bottle as much as they are for the five minutes of precious conversation with a man who knew everybody's secrets and wasn't afraid to blab for a few extra pence.

Why, if you were driving down Derrymacash Road, the central road that bisected the few houses that dotted the fields across the land, you might not even realise you've driven through Derryadd unless you had managed to spy the small wooden sign, hand-painted with locally produced white paint, signalling: 'Welcome to Derryadd, birthplace of none but home to many, population 178.'

If you were to look particularly hard at the sign, which would require much deliberation on your part, perhaps you work as a health and safety advisor and saw a few too many splinters that warranted further examination? Well if you did, then you would spy a faintly wiped off previous paint mark that showed a nine where the eight now stood.

The reason for the recent sign change could be attributed to poor Mrs Fitchley, who had lived at Byrnes Rampart. She had passed away the Saturday just gone. Her story was one of especially lamentable luck: At the age of eighty-three, (I'm sixty-nine in the mind she was want to say with a wink on her eye, an act that could cause bile to rise in the throat if one was to think too much on the insinuation), Mrs Fitchley was finding it tough getting up and down her stairs. It was all well and good in the morning and at night when a forty minute trek could be seen as nothing more than exercise to keep the joints working, but at meal times and toilet breaks it just wouldn't do.

A pensioner's stomach works differently to yours or mine (unless you're a pensioner in which case you totally understand), when you're hungry you're hungry, if you don't feed that stomach then five minutes later you're going to find the hunger gone and a pang of cramps returning in its place. Same with the bathroom, you let it out or you accept that it's staying in there for the next forty-eight hours and back come the stomach cramps.

So it was with a great deal of luck that a passing stair-lift salesman got lost on his way while travelling from Dungannon to Lurgan, had taken a few too many left turns and ended up running out of gas in Derryadd.

At the local gas station, run by one man in his sixties who owned a beat-up pick-up truck, the salesman was told that his car could be gassed up and good to go in around four hours. When the salesman had asked why it would take so long, the man explained that his son usually drove into Craigavon to pick-up gas supplies once a fortnight, every other Saturday when he returned from university to spend some time with his dear granddaddy.

We only get enough to keep the town runnin'. You can't expect us to keep extra supplies round here just goin' to waste, can ye now. So I has to run down to Craigy and grab you some, unless y'fancy doing it yerself?

If the salesman was geographically gifted, he would have known that Craigavon was but a ten minute drive away and would have queried why the man needed four hours to get there and back. The reply would have been one full of derision, informing the salesman to look at the truck, does it look operable to you? Of course not, it's beat-up, long gone, so the man has to walk there and back and these bones aren't what they used to be. This would be followed by a twenty minute monologue about the perils of old age and the luckiness of the salesman to have such young supple bones. It was therefore perhaps for the best that the salesman didn't know his local topography.

The salesman, a man of fervent divine belief, took it as a sign from God that these poor backwards folks needed some stair-lifts and it was His will that John, for the salesman's name was John, took these four hours and worked at great pace.

Mrs Fitchley had been John's third attempt at entering a home. The first had politely smacked the door into his face, but his nose was accustomed to this and bounced back into place once he had stepped away. The second had asked him to wait just one minute before returning with her elderly husband in tow, his walking stick already raised as he shuffled forward to attack John, his mouth dribbling saliva as he rabidly informed the retreating John of the lack of their requirement for what he was selling.

Mrs Fitchley had embraced John like a long-lost cousin, though a cousin twice removed so he was only offered a cup of tea and allowed the favour of bending her ear for five minutes before she would lose patience.

John had given his pitch with ease, perfectly practised and sublimely spoken, well, in his head it had went that way. It would have gone that way too if not for every ten to twelve seconds when Mrs Fitchley asked him to repeat what he had just said, to speak up, to rephrase that, or to explain what exactly a 'three-speed motorised gear-stick' was. The result sounded more like John was a persistent stutterer who excelled at repetition.

Twelve agonising minutes later, four times longer than his average pitch, and Mrs Fitchley was nodding her head sagely as she jostled her hands through a brown leather bag in pursuit of her cheque book.

Deal done, John had installed the stair-lift there and then and had headed off on his way, issuing Mrs Fitchley with a calling card should she have any problems. John was confident that she wouldn't, having never had an unsatisfied customer calling him to complain. The reason for this was not to John's knowledge, having never looked at his own card with anything more than superficial glee and enjoying the embossed lettering, the blue on white sheen, and the way his name was cursively written in Segoe Script font.

You see, John's card was useless for anything more than remembering who sold you 'that blasted contraption,' for the engraver had misread John's handwriting and mistook a zero as a six.

So when you called looking for John Stanley, salesman, you would be greeted by a young Asiatic man welcoming you to Sunshine and asking for your order. If you confusedly said you had already ordered, he would ask you for your address. When given, the man would likely politely inform you that you were outside their delivery radius and couldn't possibly have ordered anything. Much muddling confusion would ensue until the Asiatic man realised that it was another stair-lift complainer, would curse your name as he hung up on you.

Woe to the person who attempted to re-try dialling the number for a second time.

Mrs Fitchley had enjoyed six speedy days with her new lift. Up and down it whizzed, a little too loud for her liking but otherwise acceptable. She had never been more pleased to have a regular food and toilet cycle. She was free from stomach cramps for the first time in fifteen years.

Tragedy struck on day seven, her stair-lift breaking while turning around the bend at the centre of her staircase. The loud whirr of the motor had intensified to a tinny squeal, followed by a hissing of grinding gears and a plume of smoke rising from the backside of her seat.

She had tried to loose the seatbelt but found it stuck; she was trapped.

She remembered that the nice young man with the pert buttocks had given her a card to call in such situations, but the phone was at the bottom of the stairs and she couldn't reach it without freeing herself. Try as she might, she just couldn't dislodge the belt buckle.

And that was the end of Mrs Fitchley. Done in by stomach cramps and a tightened sphincter, refusing to sully herself before the end, clutching the salesman's card between stiffened fingers, her head peacefully resting against her chest.

She was found by her neighbour, Mr Travison, who had found it strange that Mrs Fitchley had not been to visit him in three days. He had went through the unlocked door and choked back a dry tear as he saw her sitting in the chair. He had wrestled the card from her deathly grip and, after calling for an ambulance, had called the number on the card with angry words already formulating through his head.

You've killed her, you slimy rotten bastard, Mr Travison had raged, your negligence stole her away in the prime of her life. You'll pay for this, mark my words.

The reply had been somewhat confusing to Mr Travison as an Asiatic man had screamed back, Our food is cooked to all hygiene standards, we're five stars, our food never poisoned anyone, our food delicious, you go away now, followed by a click and silence in his ear.

Q Q Q

Jimmy was twenty-five years old and lived with his parents, Candy and Geoffrey (G-Stamp) Stamper.

His mother, Candy, hadn't always been named after delicious treats. Born in Kent, England, she was christened Eugenia Flifflebottom and was the second most beautiful child her parents, Edgar and Elise, had ever seen. The most beautiful child being Christiana Egglebert, a local child of three years, born of dubious ilk to parents who Elise purported, to all who would listen, bathe but once a week, together no less! Why, it was barbaric. How a child such as Christiana had ever been conceived from such troglodytes was beyond comprehension.

As a notable aside, Eugenia means 'well-born' because, let's face it, they were awesome parents and deserved all the credit for her endearing beauty. Had she been born of a less appealing nature, her name would have been Mallory, child born without luck, for it was surely not her parents fault that she failed to inherit any of their perfect genes.

At the age of thirteen, Eugenia discovered blowjobs. She hadn't meant to, they kind of just popped up on her one day while she was out cycling. She usually cycled the same route to and from school, cutting through a quiet park where she would see the occasional child hand-in-hand with a parent as they walked down the gravel pathway.

It was during this route that she first spied the man who called himself Dr Black, even though he was white and pasty and probably wasn't permitted to practice medicine. He had called her over but she had ignored him once, twice, five times. After seven times her curiosity got the better of her senses and she stepped gingerly off her bike, propped it against a tree, and skipped over to the man.

It's like a lollipop, he had explained, you put your lips over it and suck. Then, when you've sucked enough, you get the creamy middle.

Eugenia couldn't remember any lollipop she had ever sucked having had a gooey middle. When she thought of the word creamy her mind thought of steak covered in peppercorn sauce, especially cheesy lasagne, and pasta carbonara. And this lollipop was flesh-coloured, and attached to his body, and quivering with a translucent jelly at the top.

One taste couldn't really hurt, could it? The man urged, almost begged, his voice was pathetic.

Maybe tomorrow, Eugenia said with a smile as she rose to her feet and ran back to her bike. At the age of thirteen, Eugenia also discovered the terms 'prick-tease' and 'blue-balls'.

Tomorrow came, as did the man after a considerable amount of effort in coercing Eugenia to her knees. While the man pressed his hands on the back of her head, she thought about his lies. This tasted nothing like a lollipop. It was more reminiscent of beef jerky coated in too much salt.

That sticky jelly at the tip was where most of the salt originated so she kept her tongue down