The Surprise

Frenchie rounded the corner of 5th and Main. The drab red brick buildings were rows upon rows of dark and glistening monoliths of hard city life. To Frenchie’s left, down an alley way, two whores fought with their pimp.

It was disgusting. Frenchie had a hard time resisting the pull from deep in his guts to puke up his pushpop and steak fries. A homeless man bumped into him, and Frenchie barfed a little into his mouth.

With a sense of urgency, he ran down the next dank alleyway to empty the contents of his mouth. Half walking, half hobbling, the cloaked figure of Frenchie shambled down past overturned trash cans and scurrying rats.

On the doorstep of some long-abandoned back-alley gambling joint there slept a drunk old man covered in old coats and a garbage bag.

For a second or a few minutes, he didn’t know for sure, Frenchie stared at the human waste before him, mouth agape. Frenchie searched his trench coat, then his daisy dukes, revealing a very illegal switchblade.

The man coughed, and in a panic the blade disappeared in the long folds of Frenchie’s leather coat. The old man’s eyes opened, and he spoke, ‘Got any change, mister?’

Frenchie crouched down by the man, and with a strained smile said, “No.” The old man looked sad, until Frenchie stabbed him brutally in the throat.

The old man gurgled blood up violently, spewing the liquor tainted red substance all over his red, knee-high cotton socks and boots. “Godamnit!” Frenchie muttered to himself.

Discretely Frenchie made his way back to his ghetto apartment to clean up and do his evening pilates. With a sigh of relief he reached his door, room 69. Home free, he thought to himself, nobody saw him.

Frenchie opened the door, and to his shock his parents and all of his Friends were waiting there in cone-shaped party hats, surrounding a cake on his dinner table.

“Surprise!” Everyone yelled. Frenchie was shocked, and angry, “What the fuck are you all doing here?! FUCK!”

Today wasn’t even Frenchie’s birthday. Turns out Frenchie’s friends and family loved him so much they gave him a surprise party just for the hell of it.

Frenchie tried to choke Matt to death, but the party crowd managed to pull them apart. Wounded and shamed, Frenchie took a shower with his dad and eventually enjoyed the party.

The next day, no one at the party would put two and two together and realize the random hobo stabbing was related to the blood-stained Frenchie.

All in all, it was a terrible day and Frenchie didn’t even get to play any videogames, because Tony M. fell on his rock band instruments, all at once. Also Tony L. spilled beer on his PS3. Frenchie didn’t sleep at all that night.

A Boy and his Frenchie

Eric woke up at the crack of dawn. He yawned and said to nobody in particular, “Gosh darn it, this infernal capitalist machine has drawn me into its nine to five trap!”

The young lad walked into his bathroom, undressed, and entered his shower. Furiously he masturbated his morning wood. It probably felt kind of good, but it’s hard to tell with this guy.

Anyway Eric finished showering and went to work. It was a normal day and Eric was depressed as shit. At lunch he told his coworker Alan that he was going to commit suicide. Alan didn’t really care and didn’t bother to tell Human Resources. That’s how this guy rolls, you know.

Eric stopped by the gun shop on the way home. He bought a pistol under the counter and one bullet. The gun store owner wasn’t even weirded out by this. When Eric said, “Just one bullet please!” the storekeep didn’t even flinch. Eric looked at him mouth agape, and gave him the cash.

Eric fed his cat when he got home, then shot it. When he realized what he had done, he was pretty pissed because he had made such a big statement by only buying one bullet, and kind of hoped to be used by anti-gun lobbyists for years to come.

When the cops arrived to investigate the gunshot Eric charged the cops and got shot like 50 times. Cops are really bad shots and somehow Eric survived.

When Eric awoke from his coma months later a strange man stood at the edge of his bed. “How could you know the moment of my long rest’s end?” Eric asked the man.

The strange man turned around. He had a bowl cut and kind of a wispy pedophile mustache. The man said in a very serious tone, “My name is Frenchie and I’m pretty pissed about this whole dealio.”

Frenchie pulled out a silenced pistol from his Daisy Dukes and shot Eric twice in the chest, once in the head. Eric died and went to hell, if you believe in that kind of shit. In all likelihood he just ceased to exist.

Frenchie went home. His job was done, and it was time to do the dishes.