I am Y.P.R.'s Boring Logo
Fun, Fickle Fiction (for Free!) Fact, Opinion, Essay, & Review Spectacular Features, Calendrical Happenings, Media Gadflies Poetry & Lyric Advice, How To, & Self-Help Listicles Semi-Frequent Columns Correspondence (Letters To and Letters From) Interviews The Book Club Letter from the Editors Disquieting Modern Trends Birthday Cards to Celebrities New & Noteworthy The Y.P.aRt Gallery Et Cetera, Et Cetera, Et Cetera The Y.P.aRchives Submit

 Atøm | Spanish
supportbar.jpg Bea!   Creative Commons License
This journal is licensed under a Creative Commons License and powered by Movable Typo 4.01.
Y.P.R. & Co.

The Journal of Literary Satire | Hastily Written & Slopilly Edited
Thursday, August 30, 2007

Even Sexy Adventurers Get the Blues: A Dickerson P. Cockley Adventure

by Kenneth Schroeder

Another Dickerson P. Cockley AdventureCrack!

“Is that it?” He screamed at me. “You had enough?”

The man had been beating me for hours, or at least it appeared that way. Due to the excruciating amount of pain I was in, time seemed to ooze by like asphalt tar. I had even forgotten what I had done to get myself into this mess. Did I sleep with his wife? Daughter? Both? I doubt it. He was an enormous man who smelled like the rotting ass of something that has been raped by zombies; I don’t think any woman he could possibly be involved with would be of my caliber.

So what is it?


“I’m not going to tell you again,” his voice rose to a womanly squeal. “Stop moving, or you’re going to really get hurt!”

Ha. What a thing for him to say. Like a hangman telling you to watch your step so as not to stub your toe. The situation was getting ridiculous.

I steeled myself against another attack, and when none immediately came, I knew I had to make a move. I leaped from his stinking torture table and drove my practiced fist deep into his throat. I heard his esophagus collapse with a sickening pop. He wore the dumb surprise of a man who truly believed that what he did was right.

As he gasped for breath there on the tile, I leaned over him and drew out my pen-knife. His eyes bulged from lack of air and horrid fear. My hand was a blur as I opened this monster a new airway with my razor-sharp blade, and he fell away from me, his throat-hole whistling with each gasping breath.

In that moment, I knew that the wretched freak would never touch another innocent person. So I stomped on his balls. And I kept on stomping until my boot-heel no longer met resistance from his crotch, until it was like stepping into a mud pit filled with packing peanuts.

He puked, or rather he tried to, and aspirated his own dinner. I could do nothing to save him now, and I didn’t want to. That cruel rodent had met his match the day he messed with Dickerson P. Cockley. I watched the blood vessels in his eyes burst as his lungs collapsed, and I smiled to myself. I kicked him once more, for good measure, in the face, and then realized I was not wearing a shirt, my god-like pecs shining in the dim, dank torture room.

From somewhere behind me, a woman screamed.

Anyway, that’s why I don’t go to the chiropractor anymore.

Kenneth Schroeder, legal, non-felon Texas resident, and prolific twenty-three year old doer of absolutely nothing important. Likes: writing idiotic stories about various topics. Dislikes: pretty much everything else.